Our Bed of Straw
by PhantomInspector
Summary: AU. Belle is a desperate, disenfranchised maiden forced to spin gold for a greedy king. Rumplestiltskin comes to strike a deal with her. But, of course, the imprisoned beauty makes things difficult for him. Rating may go up.
1. Chapter 1

I have no idea if anyone else has attempted a story like this. Someone probably has, and if so I have not read their work, so this isn't an intentional imitation. This shouldn't be a very long story (five chapters, maybe?). I don't want it to be long since I'll keep working on "Entirely Up To You" and another OUAT fic yet to be published. So don't despair if I'm writing chapters for this instead of another story you're more interested in. But reviews would still be appreciated!

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**Our Bed of Straw**

King Dathomir's ambition and ruthlessness knew no limits. He was a rare sort of ruler who could fashion an army with the strength and tactics to turn the tide of the Third Ogres War almost single-handedly. When his forces pushed the creatures back to the realms of their origin, he'd been hailed by other kingdoms as a hero. Avonlea, just southwest of Dathomir's realm, was prepared to offer what meager rewards and displays of gratitude it could, even in the face of the financial toll the war had taken. The ruling duchies assembled in preparation to express this sentiment to the triumphant monarch. Said monarch surprised them with the same armies that had saved them.

Dathomir did desire compensation for his efforts. He also knew that the Ogre War had ravaged the treasuries of his neighbors. He consoled the nobles of Avonlea with assurance that since they could not properly repay him, he would decide on the reward he felt owed to him. His soldiers assaulted each region with a ferocity that made people almost forget the terror inspired by the ogres. The duchies stood no chance.

The king acquired many spoils from his plundering, as well as many prisoners. His own nobles were eager to lay claim to the lands that fell to his power. Avonlea's nobility held no interest for him. He wanted subjects who were ready and willing to pay him complete loyalty, which was easier to acquire from people from his own country. All the nobles of Avonlea were stripped of their titles and property. Most were exiled or relocated to hamlets to assume a peasant way of life. Some had to be made examples of, especially nobles who spoke out against the new king. Sir Maurice ended up in this group, to Dathomir's surprise. He wasn't a brave or virile man, but he had an unwarranted sense of pride in his family and homeland. Such a man – even one as unimpressive as Maurice – could not be tolerated. Dathomir announced his execution and the execution of his allies and relatives.

Maurice finally broke. Tears fell down his flabby cheeks. He clamped his hands together and pleaded to the king on his knees. "Your majesty, have mercy! If not for me, then for my daughter!"

The eyes of imprisoned nobles and members of Dathomir's court turned to the young woman beside the distressed knight. She wore the same golden gown she'd donned the day Dathomir's men breached the city walls. Dathomir wanted the recalcitrant to watch their fine garments become soiled and threadbare. Nevertheless, Belle owned a soft-spoken beauty that could not be easily concealed or depreciated by ruined clothes. Nor did her state of dress dampen the heat in her eyes, dignified and unquenchable. But her distress mirrored her father's to see him beg for her life. She dropped beside him and urged him to rise to his feet while whispering comforting words.

Cool eyes wandered over the lovely form of the noble lady. Dathomir's handsome, stubbled face was delighted at Maurice's diminished state. He regarded Belle with hardly any more pity. "You _do_ have a beautiful daughter, I admit. Her will is far stronger than yours. I can see it without having heard a word out of her mouth. In another time, I would not have hesitated to make such a woman my queen. But I suspect she would not have me – she's too offended by my actions to think of it."

His laughter filled the room. Both Maurice and Belle shivered. Dathomir pressed on through lingering chuckles. "Why should I wish to spare my enemy's daughter? To let her take her revenge? Besides, I have plenty of other prospects. You daughter can serve me no purpose."

For some reason, the ire returned to Maurice's belly. With Belle supporting his arm, he bellowed at the king. "You fiend! You haven't the heart to desire a wife! You care for nothing but wealth!"

"True," Dathomir answered. The casual word made Maurice falter. The king could have left it there, but an idea hit him. He couldn't pass up the opportunity for one more stab of humiliation in the insolent knight's heart. "But there may be one way your daughter could find favor."

"How?" asked Maurice with eagerness and fear.

"By spinning straw into gold!" Dathomir laughed again and encouraged his courtiers to join him. The lords and ladies acquiesced.

The king sent the captives back to their cells. Maurice and Belle traded a final look before they went down different corridors. Maurice's eyes gave an anxious farewell and begged her forgiveness. Belle's gaze tried to ease his agony and asked him to be brave. Both of them understood as they lost sight of one another that this was their last conversation. The notion left Belle numb even as the soldiers shoved her into the small dungeon. She couldn't even begin to weep over it. Their situation compelled her to spend her energy in thought. Was there nothing they could do? No way to contact someone for help?

Belle had only one slit of a window to tell her the time of day. The sun was still high in the western sky, but sooner than Belle hoped darkness swallowed everything. When it did, she was no closer to finding an answer. Her despair tightened around her as she fell asleep, but some small voice struggled to shake away her despondency. There was always hope, however dim and distant. She demanded herself to keep thinking on how she and her father could survive this. Sleep bore her away from her grim surroundings for a few hours.

For the next two days she received no word from the outside world. A guard would come twice while the sun was up to open the slot in the door and toss a tray of bread and soup at her. The food often landed on the floor; Belle forced herself to eat it, anyway. It was still food. She could endure the inhumane treatment, but she didn't dare to think how her father fared. His dignity would suffer so greatly from this. It broke her heart to think on it, yet she couldn't _not_ think of her flesh and blood. If she couldn't be with him in person, she wanted him close in her thoughts.

On the third day a new presence surprised Belle. A lad in his early adolescence and dressed in the garbs of the king's servants stood outside the door, as did the regular guard. The youth addressed her with unexpected cordiality she hadn't received in a long time – or so it felt. He slipped a note through the food slot. Although she wanted to retain some shred of composure, Belle nearly dove for the paper. For a second she hoped against hope it was from her father, or from someone in Dathomir's court who sympathized with her plight. With a breath to steel herself, she opened it. Her fears came crashing down.

_Lady Belle of the Marshlands:_

_Your father was executed this morning. I thought you might like to know before the guards bring you breakfast. My condolences. I am sorry that we could not come to a more favorable arrangement for you. Do not weep too much, however. If you insist on being as stubborn as he, you shall join him soon. _

_His majesty,_

_Dathomir I of Utheria_

Belle's eyes remained dry in spite of her hammering heart and shrinking lungs. The messenger was very likely oblivious to the news he'd delivered, for he bowed with calm shyness and slipped away. The guard shoved her breakfast through the slot. She left the overturned contents for the mice and rats.

She did consider fasting as a form of protest. If she withered away by her own volition before they placed the executioner's blade against her neck, where would the king's victory be? Grief also crept into her heart and started to do its work. Belle experienced terrible rage and sorrow at the loss of all she'd once known: home, freedom, her father. All gone. For a long while she couldn't think of what she had left to live for. She might as well accept her imminent death.

When that thought came to her, though, her father's face appeared. It would have killed him to know she desired her own death. And what would her mother think if she'd been alive? This resignation went against everything she'd taught Belle. Even in a dungeon, in the midst of terrible enemies, she could decide her fate. She alone must decide her fate. With some strength bubbling up again, Belle unfurled from the dank corner she'd made into her bed and paced across the chamber. She didn't want to die. Death would be a last resort, and only if it were the right, brave thing to do. The king did imply that if she cooperated, she might be shown leniency. How, though? She had no idea.

_By spinning straw into gold_. That's what Dathomir had said. Belle repeated the phrase in her mind many times, as if calling to the heavens to give her some idea how she could use it. She'd understood what he really meant by it. Belle had almost nothing of value. Dathomir had taken it all. But, maybe, if she could prove she could help him acquire more wealth . . . no. Still nothing.

She sighed, pressed her back against the wall beneath the window, now showering red and orange sun rays into the little cell, and closed her eyes. _If only I _could_ spin straw into gold_, she thought. A humorless smile formed on her lips.

"That would be something, wouldn't it?" a voice replied. It was followed by a high-pitched giggle.

Her eyes snapped open. Her muscles tensed at the voice of the intruder. She gathered her arms against her chest for protection. There was no need at the moment despite the stranger's presence. He – so Belle presumed by the voice, though she couldn't be entirely sure – sat across from her against the opposite wall. Wiry hair shadowed his face. Its length made Belle second-guess the gender of her new companion. She inspected his shape. He sat with one knee propped up and a bony hair resting daintily on top of it. It didn't hide the flat chest hugged by a maroon shirt and black vest under a coat ranging from red to brown, apparently sewn from leather. His close-fitting trousers further confirmed Belle's initial guess. She was mindful not to let her eye linger there for long. It interested her more that the stranger had managed to enter her cell without opening the door, and that, unless the fading light was causing an illusion, his skin had an unnatural pigment. She couldn't decide if it was green, yellow, gray, or all three.

The man, or creature, sprang to his boot-clad feet. Despite his lean physique and short stature (he barely surpassed her height), he struck an imposing figure, particularly as he walked toward her with hopping strides. "But you can't, can you, dearie?"

Belle tried to blink away her bafflement. It didn't work. "Do what?"

"Spin straw into gold, of course!" he said with jeering shake of his head. He talked and giggled as if he'd stated an obvious fact. "If only you could, you just might save your pretty little head."

As he stepped closer, the man's face came into the light from the window. The sharp contours of his face resembled a hawk and a reptile at the same time. His smile, filled with yellowing, crooked teeth, carved lines into his face. He had large eyes made even larger by the brown-green irises that nearly swallowed them up. A startling visage, but more peculiar than terrible when the sunlight made his skin glitter like the rocks Belle used to dig up from the river bed as a child.

"Who are you?" she managed to ask without stammering.

Stopping just two steps from her, the stranger extended his arms sideways and bowed deeply. He rolling the 'r' with unnecessary gusto. "R-r-r-rumplestiltskin." He quickly straightened. "And you must be Lady Belle, the fair daughter of the late Sir Maurice of the Marshlands, in the kingdom of Avonlea."

Belle swallowed down his remark about her father. "How do you know that? How do you know about my situation?"

"It's my business to know, dearie. It's how I make my living." He let his eyes roam over her once before settling on her face. Belle disliked being examined by anyone, but at least he didn't behave too lewdly about it. "A shame your people didn't ask for my help sooner. Much bloodshed could have been avoided."

Rumplestiltskin. The name did have a familiar ring. Belle furrowed her forehead while her mind rummaged its backroom of memories for some clue. After a minute she found one. "Oh! I have heard of you. You're . . . the dealmaker, right? People call for your help, and you make deals with them."

"That'd be right!" Rumplestiltskin flourished a hand to accentuate his already over-the-top tone. "I'm only too happy to help . . . for a price."

The brief flicker of relief and delight that lit up Belle's heart was quickly drowned by bucketfuls of dread. She didn't know much about Rumplestiltskin in particular, but his reputation preceded him. Every deal he'd ever made always went awry for his clients. More like his victims. Bargains entered into too hastily, filled with loopholes and burdened with severe repercussions – that was his game. This was not the help she'd hoped for. Then again, Belle had severely limited options. If she needed to make a deal with him, she'd have to tread with extreme care. Knowing that made her wonder just how many people had thought as much before falling prey to the imp's wily ways.

"That's why you're here, then," she said in a low voice. "To help me. How?"

"That depends on what you want, dearie." Rumplestiltskin brought his long, clawed fingers together and began to pace in front of her. His eyes left her for only a few seconds. "You desire freedom, no doubt. Retribution, perhaps? The death of your captors?"

Belle quickly shook away his words. He wouldn't pull her in that easily. "No, not vengeance. No bloodshed. There's been enough of that."

He narrowed his gaze. "What, then? I could help you escape from this prison. No bloodshed required."

Escape did deserve consideration. Belle very much wanted to taste fresh air again. New clothes and a new life. She'd always wanted to travel, too. This could be her chance to see the world. But . . . she meditated on what kind of life that would be. A life on the run? Would Dathomir pursue her when he learned of her escape? People from everywhere understood that he was ruthless. He might put a bounty on her head just to guarantee that she lived a miserable existence as a fugitive. And even if she could avoid capture, what sort of life would she have? As a vagabond? A beggar? Could she flee to another kingdom for aid and protection? She didn't personally know anyone outside the duchies who would chance an alliance with a fallen noble. The duchies had, until now, been a self-sufficient entity merely on good terms with other kingdoms. No outside friends, then, that could be wholly depended upon.

Maybe a bolder, braver woman with more experience could live on the lam without such help. In Belle's mind, she was not that woman. She wanted to be brave but didn't think she could be _that_ kind of brave. Her experience was limited to her father's home. She'd grown up listening to nobles, advisers and ambassadors. She understood politics and strategy, even if the men of court never cared to hear her opinions. She longed to be heard and respected for her mind almost as much as she craved liberty. A fugitive's life lay too far outside her boundaries and abilities, whereas a chance to live among Dathomir's nobles was more familiar, and could offer more opportunities to make friends and accrue favors.

"No," she said softly at last. "I . . . I don't think I could live a life on the run." Belle had kept her gaze arrested on the floor in front of her feet. She didn't want Rumplestiltskin's face and pacing to distract her. It was hard to know what to expect when she looked up again. When she did, she nearly smiled, if only in disbelief.

Rumplestiltskin appeared puzzled. The expression didn't fit him as nicely as his exaggerated smile. Belle couldn't guess how long it lingered on his face; when she looked at him, he discarded it with a shrug and a frown of helplessness. "Well, then, you seem to have only one other choice." His previous grin, filled with mischief, returned. He came toward her until he could lean in and, if he wished, touch her nose with his. Belle's heart palpitated at the uncomfortable proximity. This must have been a part of his act to pressure people into his deals. He spoke through his crocodile grin. "You'll have to win the king's favor."

Belle inhaled slowly. She caught his scent – a mingling of something briny, something sour, and something ticklishly sweet. Sharp, but not completely revolting. She braced her hands against the wall behind her in case his magic-laced smell went to her head.

"By spinning straw into gold. Or something like that."

"Something _exactly_ like that." His tone and grin were gleefully malicious, but she noticed a fleeting moment of gentleness in his eyes. Probably her imagination and his closeness playing tricks on her.

"Can you do that?" It sounded like an odd ability. Belle had never read a book involving a witch or wizard who performed such a feat. But this was Rumplestiltskin – supposedly the most powerful and feared sorcerer in all the Realms, and far older than any other living creature. He likely wouldn't offer his services to her if there was a chance he couldn't fulfill the task.

"Of course I can! In fact, it's my specialty." He pronounced it 'speh-see-ul-tee'. The serpentine utterance echoed the scaly texture of his skin. "I spin gold all the time."

Belle's eyebrows jumped up. "That's . . . very convenient."

"Indeed." Another giggle, half-suppressed this time, hummed through his teeth. He finally stepped back and let her breathe, only to wag a long finger at her. "But, it's going to cost you!"

"I know," she said, nodding. She was just glad to gulp some air without worrying about breathing in his face or drinking in more of his strange scent. The latter wasn't horrible, but her breath could probably repulse a dragon. She'd not been permitted to clean any part of her body in several days. "What do you want?"

Rumplestiltskin grew thoughtful while turning away, as if he hadn't given the question much consideration. Was it just another phase of his performance, or had he really not decided? This seemed like an ill omen. She hated owing anyone anything. Maybe there was something she could give him here and now. In her current state, of course, the chances were slim.

After an unbearably long minute, Rumplestiltskin faced Belle and pointed at her with clasped hands. "Should you succeed in winning the king's favor – perhaps even his hand – you will no doubt come into possession of a great many riches. When that time comes, I will return to collect."

"No," Belle declared, nearly interrupting the dealmaker.

Shock and confusion flooded the imp's face. He even looked offended with his scowl and squint. "What?"

"I want to pay you now," she clarified in a gentler voice. "To avoid ambiguity."

Rumplestiltskin's scowl deepened. To her relief, he didn't look ready to yell at her or throw her against a wall. "You have nothing in your current possession that I want. What choice do you have?"

Taking a quick breath, Belle turned around and pulled down her bodice. Her fingers searched along the front of her corset for the laces that held it together. Soon she loosened them, revealing the thin cotton chemise underneath that protected her skin from the rough texture of the constraining garment. She shoved her hand along the inside of the corset and felt around.

"What are you doing?" asked Rumplestiltskin, suddenly behind her and breathing against her neck.

Belle must have jumped at least five inches and let out a very unbecoming squeak. She whipped her head around to see him very close, staring in bemusement. Her face flushed. "Just give me a moment."

"That's not what I asked." His eyes ran along her bare arm and drifted as far down as her wrist, just before her hand disappeared between the corset and her breasts. As if losing the courage to continue, he went back to her eyes. "Why are you undressing?"

"I'm not _really_ undressing." Belle spoke quickly to smother the idea that must have been forming in his mind. As she did, her fingers found their quarry. She gave a hard tug that snapped a few threads and extracted her hand to show Rumplestiltskin a ring. It held a bright blue stone, finely cut and gleaming with an uncanny radiance. She pulled the bodice of her gown back up, not bothering to re-lace herself yet. "It was my mother's. It's the most valuable thing I've ever owned."

Rumplestiltskin eyed the ring before snickering. He leveled a devastatingly underwhelmed look at her. "I'm not interested in baubles, dearie."

Belle tried to keep the panic in her chest out of her voice. "My father brought it back for her after traveling in far-off lands. It's said to have magical properties."

"Such as?" His voice overflowed with skepticism.

"How should I know? I don't use magic." She wanted to sound more confident than she felt. The imp's dubious expression squelched her hope. She couldn't give up, though. "Surely a man like you would want to find out for himself."

Rumplestiltskin gave an unforgiving smirk. "Nice try. Have to do better than that. If you haven't anything more valuable to offer right now, it's either my price or no deal."

The hand holding the ring dropped. So did Belle's façade of self-assurance. This was as far ahead as she'd planned. She thought on Rumplestiltskin's offer again and set it aside. It might have been foolish to dismiss the offer. What could he ask for that was so awful she couldn't uphold her end of the bargain? But his word choice bothered her – _riches_, he'd said. Yet he didn't deal in baubles. Jewels did not interest him. Gold probably didn't, either, if he could spin it. He wanted something valuable that might not intuitively cross anyone else's mind. That possibility made Belle's stomach squirm. If she asked what he particularly wanted, that might reassure her. Again, her instinct stopped her before she even began to open her mouth. The evil glint in Rumplestiltskin's eyes warned her that she wouldn't like it what he'd say. It would be something far too dear. Far too precious. A dozen possibilities flashed through her mind. Her stomach writhed some more.

She lowered her gaze and walked past him. Her body shivered as she uttered the words she knew would seal her doom: "Then no deal."

She said them so quietly she feared Rumplestiltskin would make her repeat them. She didn't want to. Better to let them float in the air and leave her to inwardly thrash at her self-appointed death sentence. Had she not decided a short while ago that she would choose death as a last resort? Surely surviving, even in the debt of this dark wizard, was better than relinquishing her life. All she could think in response was this: _To agree to this deal would enslave me to two men. I can't live like that, even if Rumplestiltskin ends up being the lesser evil._ No, it couldn't be suffered.

Her decision, resounding in her mind like a gong, left her no more at ease. She rubbed her mother's ring between her fingers and attempted to slow her breathing. Tears pricked the back of her eyes. Her ears strained to hear something from Rumplestiltskin. They met silence. He must have departed as soon as she turned down his offer. Belle let her head hang. Her shoulders relaxed a little. One burden gone, at least.

She jumped when Rumplestiltskin said, "You'd rather let a king – the one who took your lands and killed your father – cut your _head_ off . . . than make a deal with me?"

Belle couldn't bring herself to answer, or even turn around. If she did, she might lose her nerve. She tightly held the ring and sniffed back a river of mucus that threatened to come down, along with the salt water brimming in her eyes.

Leather boots pounded across the stone floor. Rumplestiltskin appeared, jaw clenched and eyes keen. He snapped his palm open. "Let me see that thing."

Fresh hope, sudden and not tentative enough, rejuvenated the wilting beauty. Belle tried to temper her joy at this turn. All the same she gladly handed him the heirloom. Looking a bit cross, he plucked it from her fingers. The tips of his briefly touched the tips of hers. What a surprise to find that even though most of his skin was scaly, the ends of his fingers felt fleshy. Human. Even with long black nails curling over them. What was he? Not really human, but close in many ways. She watched him hold the ring to the light and appraise it. He wrinkled his nose like a confused, frustrated child. Nimble fingers turned the ring over many times, sometimes to try twisting the metal. He tapped the stone with his fingernail.

His screwed-up features gradually relaxed. The more they did, the harder Belle found it to breathe. She silenced all optimistic thoughts out of a superstitious fear that she would ruin her luck. Her hands gripped each other. It was all she could do to keep herself together.

Rumplestiltskin finally huffed. He clamped a hand around the ring and glanced at Belle. "I suppose I could do _something_ with it."

A smile burst across Belle's lips. She let it for half a second, then closed her mouth into a flat line. "Good. I'm glad." She nodded more vigorously than needed. Better than jumping up and down and flinging her arms in gratitude around the imp's neck. "What now?"

The dealmaker's mood improved. He flipped the piece of jewelry with his thumb, sending a metallic ring through the air. He caught the treasure and stowed it away inside his coat. Belle noticed now that his coat couldn't be made of ordinary leather. Like him, it appeared to be composed of scales. She wanted to ask him about it. The urge was answered by a scolding for her incorrigible curiosity.

"Now, dearie," he said, his vivacious timbre restored, "all you have to do is ask the king for a spinning wheel and some straw. Think you can handle that much?"

"Of course." Her confidence came back, too, to assure him she would not back out of their deal. And she was not so _wholly_ helpless that she couldn't do this one thing herself.

"Then I shall return when you have what I need. Your ring for a day's worth of spun gold." He approached her again but didn't come as close as before. "Is it a deal?"

With more calm than she expected, Belle nodded once. "Yes. Deal."

"Till tomorrow, then." His eyes widened and his mouth erupted into maniacal laughter before he evaporated in a cloud of purple smoke. His resonating laugh lingered with her. He'd done it on purpose. Just because the deal had been struck didn't mean he wanted to leave her with her peace of mind. Belle sighed, sat on the cold floor and tucked her legs and skirts under her. It didn't matter. She'd been robbed of her peace of mind already. What she needed more than that was courage. Shivering, she waited for the chance to show that she had acquired some.


	2. Chapter 2

Oh my gosh, the revieeeeeeeeeeews! And the follooooooooooows! And the faaaaaaaaaves! Holy crap, I don't think I've ever had this many people interested in my writing before. You're all so awesome. Thanks for the feedback and love.

Warning: chapter is very long. Hence why it took me about a week to write it. Can't say if they'll all be this long. Probably. Hope you enjoy it.

Also, can anyone tell me where the term "Marchlands" came from regarding Belle's homeland? Some people have used it in fics and I don't know the source. I just called Sir Maurice's domain the Marshlands because the opening shot of his castle showed it near what looked like swamps. So yeah. Uber creative.

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Rumplestiltskin's departure couldn't have been better timed. No more than a quarter of an hour after the imp magicked himself out of the cell, the guard arrived with Belle's second meal. It would be the last before another long, cold, lonely night. Fatigue from restricted movement and the unexpected encounter stiffened her legs. The unpleasant sensation did not stop her from scrambling to her feet and approaching the door with enough haste to catch the guard before he left. She didn't want to appear desperate, but, well, appearances mattered only so much at this stage.

"I wish to send a message to the king," Belle announced with regained poise. She _hoped_ she sounded poised.

The guard snorted and looked at her askance. "Any petition for your release is a waste of energy, miss. Better keep quiet and wait for it to be over."

Belle pushed her words past his grim declaration. She stood close to the door but resisted grasping the bars. "His majesty has proposed that he might spare me if I can be of use to him. Tell him I've decided to cooperate. Tell him . . . that I will spin straw into gold for him, if he promises to let me live."

The guard's sharp laugh knocked her back not out of surprise, but by its rude dismissal of her admittedly outrageous request. She almost questioned her sanity while listening to her warden's mirth – he clutched his chest and wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. Her memory of Rumplestiltskin alone assured her that the task could be done. She fought against the doubting voice that wondered whether she hadn't dreamed him up in a stupor. To check herself, she touched her bodice. The corset was still unlaced underneath. She couldn't feel the shape of her mother's ring pressing through the chemise against her stomach. The exchanged had been real, she chanted in her mind.

"Oh, that's a good one!" the guard said after he decided he'd laughed enough at her expense. "Yes, I'll be sure to tell the king that."

"Be sure you do," Belle pressed, all seriousness. "And tell him that he must provide me with straw and a spinning wheel by tomorrow morning. I want to have all day to work."

The guard chuckled some more, though the first spurt had a hint of bewilderment at her somber tone. Her eyes locked on him as he walked away. Air returned to her lungs when he stepped out of view. So did common sense. How could she hope to convince anyone, let alone the king, that she could do this? He'd made the original remark in jest, not out of genuine expectation. The convenience of it would rattle Dathomir's nerves and probably earn either his anger or amusement. There was no way to tell which it would be. What was he really risking, though, by giving Belle a chance? Straw and spinning wheels were hardly applicable as escape tools. Well, the spindle perhaps could be forged into a dangerous weapon or a lock-pick.

Belle dismissed the notion. Besides, worrying over Dathomir's response would only wind her up. She scooped up her meal and ate while eyeing the rats that darted across the stone floor. When she finished she stood, brushed the crumbs off her dress, and stepped back to give the rodents room to grab and run. She certainly wanted for better company. Besides being carriers of disease, the vermin couldn't occupy her mind with conversation or insight into their favorite books. They could serve only as objects for observation and distraction. Expecting to be on her own for the rest of the night, Belle knelt down and watched her companions nibble and scurry. They squeaked to each other, which made her smile and wonder if they could in fact talk to one another. Oh, the things she was resorted to rely on for mental activity. Could've been far worse, though. Her mind and body, becoming more at ease, slowly yielded to slumber.

She couldn't recall how long she'd been asleep when a rude banging awoke her. Darkness met her opening eyes. Her heartbeat filled her ears and echoed the banging against the dungeon door.

"You!" said a harsh, unfamiliar voice. "Wake up! Stand in the presence of the king!"

Belle gasped. Was she dreaming? She slapped herself on the cheek while trying to stand and not trip over her dress. The sting assured her, despite the dizziness from standing suddenly. She picked up her hem and hustled to the door. A peek through the barred window revealed faceless shadowed figures outlined by torchlight. In an instant the towering body of King Dathomir filled her vision. He craned his head down and glared at Belle through the bars, for which she suddenly felt rather grateful.

"What nonsense have you spouted at my guard, Lady Belle?" His leonine voice managed to hover beneath a hushed growl. It still made Belle quiver. "If this is a jest, I'll have your head on my breakfast plate by tomorrow morning."

"This is no jest," she answered as firmly as possible. She snuck in a swallow before continuing. "You said that I would be useful to you if I could spin straw into gold. That I will do, if you spare my life."

Dathomir truly growled this time, like a real lion. Then he snapped his gaze to the guard on his left. "Open the door."

The man obeyed with a mumbled phrase of subservience. Belle jumped back and nearly bumped into the wall behind her. The cell lit up with the torch in Dathomir's hand as he entered. The door promptly swung shut after him. Belle dreaded the worst. She couldn't stop herself from shaking, even when she clamped her arms around her and lifted her chin so her gaze met his. There was no way she could feel safe, or brave, until Dathomir placed the prison door between them again. Yet somehow she remembered to curtsey, buckling knees and all. Dathomir seemed to approve; his expression become a touch less fierce.

"You expect me to believe you? To believe in such a farce? Or are you trying to amuse me?"

"I wish to prove myself," whispered Belle. She cleared her throat and tried to speak louder. "I have the means to do what you have asked of me, except the materials. I beseech your Majesty to give me a chance. A spinning wheel and straw are all I ask."

"You can spin straw into gold?" Dathomir's tone softly transformed from rage to curiosity. It helped Belle breathe a little more freely.

"Yes."

"Why did you not say so sooner?"

A blush stole over her cheeks. She hoped the firelight did not betray her. Should she lie? It terrified her to think what might happen if Dathomir learned of her involvement with Rumplestiltskin – would he place her at the mercy of the clerics? Would he use her as a tool to imprison the sorcerer? As much as Rumplestiltskin disturbed her with his appearance and character, she did not wish him ill, nor did she want to be responsible for his misfortune at the hands of the king. If she lied now, however, and Dathomir learned the truth later . . .

"Well?" Dathomir remained where he stood, but his eyes did their best to crush her with the weight of their intensity.

Belle clenched her hands before dropping her shoulders and sighing in apparent resignation. "I knew you wouldn't believe me had I told you the day you sentenced us to death. I have kept it a secret for fear it would be used against me, or tempt suitors who were only interested in wealth."

The left corner of Dathomir's full lips turned up. "And how did you acquire this power?"

"I've always had it." She needed to avoid as many details as possible if she expected to uphold this falsehood.

"Did your father know of it?"

"Of course; he was too good a man to force me to use it."

"Then he was a greater fool than I thought." The king snickered and smiled widely.

Belle was known at home for her gentle disposition. Violence did not sit well with her, even against those who hurt her or her family. It then angered her all the more that Dathomir's remarks stirred such rage that she contemplated slapping his face or scratching out his hateful eyes. Her eyelids fluttered to keep her tears at bay. She swallowed again and inhaled to cool her insides and temper her words. "Spare me, your Majesty, and you shall have your gold. Do we have a deal?"

She didn't know why, but her bluntness provoked a chuckle out of the king. His suspicion did not seem to occupy the forefront of his mind anymore. No doubt he still didn't really believe her, but his irritation retreated and permitted his more relaxed, conceited self to take charge. He took hold of Belle's chin and lifted it, exposing more of her face to the light.

"You are full of surprises, aren't you?" He held her gaze for a minute longer than Belle cared for or thought necessary. She quietly gasped when he released her. "Very well. You shall have what you need. And I expect results, sweet lady. If I find you have been playing me for a lark, be sure that the day will not end without your head nestled atop a spike."

* * *

Sleep did not come so quickly this time. A dozen different fears kept Belle's eyes wide and alert as the night deepened. The mice and rats wouldn't stop squeaking. Why couldn't they leave her alone? She had no food to draw them out. Nothing but the dirt of the floor and her tattered skirts. Not even a blanket had been provided to shut out the cold. Belle shifted time and again to make herself comfortable. The floor refused to be forgiving, and it left her joints sore and likely bruising. She should've thought to ask the king for surplus straw to lie on. Maybe she'd be able to take some tomorrow, should everything go as planned.

That, of course, was partly why she couldn't sleep. It was easy to imagine all the ways in which it could go wrong. Rumplestiltskin may not return. Why should he? He had her ring. She'd refused to surrender any other form of payment. He'd extracted all the value he could from her. The only reassuring thought she could fix on was the fact that Rumplestiltskin was not renowned for being an outright thief. He did, from what she'd heard, uphold his agreements. It was a small, cold comfort, and it did little to help her relax. Her eyes barely caught a moment's worth of rest before rosy tints of dawn shined into the cell.

When the dungeon door turned on its hinges, Belle shut her eyes and feigned slumber. The last thing she needed was another confrontation with either the king or his servants. The shuffling of booted feet, sluggish and heavy, indicated the intrusion of a pair of burdened guards. She didn't need eyes to know what was happening. She just hoped that bringing in the straw and wheel was _all_ the guards intended to do while in her cell. Before too long she picked up the first heartening sign of her relative safety. Though the guards tried to pick up their feet in delivering the straw, more than one yawned quite loudly. Their low, tired voices also calmed her. Belle dared to whisper a sigh. She wasn't the only person in the castle who needed more shut-eye. They were much more interested in their beds than her. She stayed very still so as not to attract their attention and to let them finish their work. For an hour, Belle found something soothing in the rustle of straw being carried in and dropped on the floor into what must have become an impressive pile, judging solely by the number of trips. The noise didn't ease her mind enough so she could sleep – it was wiser not to even in the presence of sleepy guards – but her nerves didn't shudder as if she were about to be attacked.

Once the guards left for good, Belle opened her eyes and saw a hill of sun-bleached straw taller than she occupying an entire corner of the cell. It glowed in the pale-pink light of early morning. Strangely beautiful, she thought. All at once, tiredness cast over her like a spell. She couldn't keep her eyes open for another minute, and, in truth, she was thankful to escape reality again for a little more time.

Her mind flitted in and out of dreaming. Brief moments of happier times juxtaposed endless nightmarish prophesies. Belle was certain she'd been married off to Dathomir, still wearing her ruined dress, and was forced to face a court of sneering, snobbish nobles who would never view her as an equal. She was also certain that the opposite ends of the royal hall were lined with the impaled heads of her countrymen, including her father and Sir Gaston, her long-gone fiancé.

A chill passed through Belle's skin as she woke up. Her eyes adjusted to the late-morning sun, little as there was in the dungeon. Just before then, her dreams had been half-interrupted by creaking. A gentle, monotonous creaking of wood. She turned over, away from the wall beside her, and spotted the leather-clad imp sitting on a stool at the spinning wheel, his back to her. He didn't seem to hear her move. The same brown and red coat he'd worn the previous evening covered his upper body. Sunlight danced across the silvery highlights in his kinked fallow hair and the subtle golden flecks on the hands that operated the spinning wheel. Her eyes followed the turn of the wheel and the line of straw twisted with twine that rotated on the axis to meet the sharp spindle. It was hard not to be awestruck seeing twine and straw wrap around the spindle on one end while a string of gold dropped down the other side and coiled into an already substantial pile on the floor.

While his unannounced reappearance left her a little uneasy, Belle diverted her attention to the fact that he was here, spinning for her. She wanted to watch him perform this wondrous ability a while longer. It really could be done! Restraining her excitement to avoid rudely disturbing him, she sat up and politely cleared her throat. "Umm . . . good morning."

"It's nearly noon," Rumplestiltskin remarked off-handedly. "Had a rough night?" A childish giggle bubbled out.

Was it that late already? She'd managed to get a few hours' sleep after all. Belle couldn't be sorry for it, but she wondered if it somehow annoyed him. He didn't _sound_ annoyed, but that didn't mean he wasn't. It was still difficult to read him. "A bit, yes. I'm sorry I wasn't awake to greet you."

"Never you mind, dearie. But now you're up, you can make yourself useful." Still not turning around, he waved a hand toward the mountain of hay. "Fetch me more straw."

Belle didn't like the sharp command in his tone – he wasn't her master – but in this instance it was better not to make a fuss. He wanted to complete the work as quickly as possible, which would be facilitated by her assistance. "Of course," she murmured. The bones in her legs and back cracked from her hasty rise. She spared a second to stretch and sort herself out before approaching the pile. It didn't seem all that smaller since she first laid eyes on it. If he didn't work quickly enough, he might run out of time. The realization worried her but soothed her minor offense at Rumplestiltskin's tactless order. She stood on her bare toes and gathered as large an armful from the top as she could carry, then hurried to his side.

"Where would you like it?" she asked from behind the bundle.

"Right at your feet."

Trusting her sense of direction, Belle set the straw down. She then looked up at the sorcerer. He still didn't face her way, nor did he attempt to converse after she completed the assigned task. The creak of the wheel filled the room. Belle straightened with the intention of returning to her corner, but something kept her rooted in place. She studied Rumplestiltskin's profile. He had a long, crooked nose that curved down only slightly towards his mouth. His cavernous nostrils – well, the one she could see – stretched back to meet the deep crease that curved down past the corner of his thin lips. She'd described him yesterday as hawkish and reptilian, yet still somehow human. In spite of the not-quite-human, not-quite-animal features, in the midday light he wasn't really ugly or frightening. Not if one looked long enough. But maybe nothing remains as ugly as first appearances suggest after prolonged study.

"You find me an interesting specimen?" the sorcerer quipped.

Belle started. Heat filled her cheeks. Rumplestiltskin still trained his eyes on the spinning wheel, yet she thought she saw the beginnings of a smirk touch his mouth. "I-I'm sorry." Maybe she ought to leave him alone. It was rude to stare at anyone. But Belle couldn't stand any more silence. As much as it worried her that she'd offended him, she preferred his voice to the creaking wheel. "I was just wondering if . . . if there was anything else I could do."

He scowled and turned to her. He'd not expected that, it seemed. Well, what else was Belle to do? Sit by herself and fiddle with her skirt or nibble on her nails? Then again, conversation might hinder his progress. Already his hand slowed the turning wheel. He still managed to keep it going as he stared at her, eyes moving up and down, trying to decipher her intentions. She could've told him what they were if he just asked. She wasn't ashamed of her desire to be useful and active. Her only source of embarrassment was her assumption that there was anything else _to_ do in this dungeon.

The helpless frown Rumplestiltskin had used yesterday returned. "Not really. I spin; you fetch me straw and take the credit. That's pretty much how this goes."

Her face still felt warm, but Belle couldn't banish herself from the imp's presence. Her insatiable curiosity overwhelmed her. She'd never met someone like him before. It was all she could do to reign in her desire to learn about what was unfamiliar to her. She fought back the horde of questions like they were hungry dogs. To compensate for this act of self-restraint, she sat down by the pile of straw and kept her gaze on Rumplestiltskin. The confusion on his face encouraged her. It was better than anger. "You do this often, then?" she asked while arranging her skirts in a more dignified fashion.

A trace of his earlier scowl, more vexed this time, worked its way into Rumplestiltskin's features. "I don't much care for small talk, dearie. Go . . . entertain yourself." He made a shooing motion.

"I would if there _were_ something to entertain me," Belle retorted before she could stop herself. His unkind response provoked her. Maybe capture and imprisonment had taken a toll on her manners. Honestly, though, she was starved for verbal intercourse.

"Well, _I'm_ not here for your entertainment," he snapped. His eyes and a scaly finger pointed at her. "And if you insist on distracting me, you can be sure this straw won't be spun by sundown, and then where will you be?"

What little vehemence Belle possessed in her body left her. She'd been foolish to think she could just chat away with some dark wizard who wanted nothing more to do with her beyond the deal they'd struck. A pang she wished she could will away sat in her chest. With a sigh, she lifted her knees and hugged them to her, then rested her mouth and chin on her forearms. Her gaze moved from Rumplestiltskin's face to his shoes. If that still bothered him, he could just sit there and take it like a man. She wasn't moving. He'd need her to get more straw for him eventually, so there was no point in pouting in the corner.

The creaking returned to its original rhythm. Belle snuck a glance back up whenever Rumplestiltskin plucked strand after strand of straw, twisted it with a line of twine that generated from somewhere inside his odd leather jacket, and fed it through the wheel. The process managed to mesmerize Belle enough to make her forget his earlier warning about talking with him. She hungered for knowledge and understanding. Prison hadn't changed her.

"Why do you use twine?"

If Belle had given the matter more thought, she could've answered her own question. She found herself more delighted than anxious, though, to feel Rumplestiltskin glowering at her. Oh, she was _asking_ for trouble, she knew—but, blast it, he wasn't making the waiting process any easier. And probably in spite of his better judgment, he did answer her, albeit very tersely.

"Straw isn't ideal material for spinning," he said through clamped teeth and a forced grin. "It snaps very easily, especially when it's as dry as this." He gestured toward the pile she'd placed beside him. So, not all his anger was aimed at her necessarily. He hadn't been given a very viable substance to work with. But he _did_ say he spun all the time.

"I suppose, then," she mused aloud, raising her voice enough that he could hear, "that you prefer spinning wool instead."

"Indeed." A half-whistled sigh passed through the imp's crooked teeth. He didn't appear to be in the mood to exhibit the same level of flamboyance as yesterday. Belle actually appreciated that. He wasn't trying so hard to project a façade. His tone did bounce around in the upper register and even lilt in a sing-song way, but not as forcefully. Belle grew pensive. She turned over a few thoughts and left him to spin a few minutes in silence. He became more composed and at ease in the absence of speech, although Belle noticed a lingering crease in his forehead. Maybe . . . if she could help him feel less agitated, he might be more accommodating.

The seed-sized idea sprouted into a hypothesis that Belle couldn't resist testing. She stood up and padded over to the other side of the spinning wheel. Rumplestiltskin's eyes started to look her way, then immediately fastened their attention on his labors. It didn't matter. The beauty squatted next to the gold that curled at his feet and examined it. It glittered like the flecks in his skin. When she touched it, the strands bent beneath her fingers. The gold was just as pliable as straw and twine. She forgot how delicate gold could be. It was a soft metal; in this form she could probably unravel it with her bare hands, though she felt sure she lacked the strength to actually break the strand. But a pair of scissors could cut through it. She therefore handled the material with care, picking up the end between only her thumb and forefinger while gingerly pulling a length of it along her palm.

"It's still very beautiful," she said, smiling. It was true. The incredible transformation struck her as a work of art. Even now, sitting close to the spindle and watching it turn, she couldn't determine when or how the change happened. Her smile brightened even more at the mystery. She loved a good mystery.

Her eyes checked on Rumplestiltskin and, to her surprise, met his. He kept rotating the wheel and feeding the straw and twine, but he also watched her with an unreadable expression that made her smile retreat. Belle did like mysteries, but they could be unsettling or frustrating.

In a moment of panic, she dropped the gold. It fell into the lap of her yellow dress. "Sorry. Should I not touch it?"

A hint of bewilderment peeked through his otherwise stoic mask, indicated by his slightly parted lips and dipping eyebrows. "It's just gold," he said with a slight headshake. "It's still the same value."

Belle didn't know how to respond. His stare frazzled her more than she expected. She tried to be more relieved than shocked by his veiled assurance. Instead her eyelids blinked rapidly and her mouth twitched into an embarrassed smile. She ducked her head away. Warm pinkness flooded her face. Why did she have to be such a graceless, awkward girl? Why couldn't she exude confidence the way every other noble she'd ever met did? She could feign it from time to time, but that was hardly the same as _believing_ in it. Her mother told her that by doing the brave thing, the feeling of bravery would eventually come to her. Well, she was waiting on it. It could come any time now.

A minute went by before she had the nerve to look back at Rumplestiltskin. When she did, she saw he was back to the wheel, no longer scrutinizing her. He was also definitely smirking. Wonderful. Rumplestiltskin was laughing at her. Not out loud, at least. Belle felt torn between joining him in his amusement and crawling back to her corner. She decided to set aside her pride and chuckle quietly. Rumplestiltskin instantly threw a questioning look at her, to which she answered with a sheepish smile. His puzzlement didn't really dissipate, but a grin accompanied it. For once they shared a similar feeling: neither of them quite knew what to make of the other.

Belle quickly overcame her shame and played with the gold again. As she did, an idea dawned on her. She began winding the thick thread around her hand into a flat coil, handling it with as much care as before. Finally—another activity to keep her from dying of boredom. Not a very challenging endeavor, but it had a two-fold benefit. She could keep her mind and hands a little busy, and she could stay near Rumplestiltskin. While she preferred conversation, companionable quietude worked for her, too, now that she had an occupation in hand. Literally. Her nerves quivered only when she thought she noticed the imp staring at her some more. She couldn't confirm it with just peripheral vision, nor did she want to really stop him. If he was going to pay attention to her, however, he ought to throw in some tête-à-tête to make it more appropriate.

The gold continued to come, so Belle remained busy neatly winding it until she caught up with Rumplestiltskin's spinning, and his pile of straw ran low. "More straw," he ordered. Belle whipped her gaze up at him, pausing in her current task but not surrendering her post beside him. She waited patiently while his countenance shifted from expectant to irked. Then he sighed and, grimacing like a schoolboy at the mercy of his headmaster, grumbled, "_Please_."

With a nod she set the gold down, rose and fetched another hefty bundle. The pieces poked her bare arms. They really were brittle and dry, a few snapping off just from her carrying them. After she put the pile on the same spot as before, Belle inspected the larger mound. The dent they'd made stood out more and gave her some solace. She skipped back to her place at Rumplestiltskin's feet and reclaimed the coil and awaited more gold to add to it. "How did you make out with the ring?"

"The ring?" Rumplestiltskin's eyebrows pinched together in concentration from braiding the straw and twine and pushing the wheel with a master craftsman's touch.

"Yes," said Belle, perturbed that he'd forgotten already. "My mother's ring. With the blue stone."

A pause; then the imp's face brightened with an unnerving grin. "Ah, of course. The one with _magical_ properties." He used a facetiously conspiratorial tone while leaning toward Belle as he said "magical". Her heart sank a little at his teasing. When he sat upright, though, he sounded more sincere. "It did strike me as somewhat unusual. Made in Agrabah, I should think. Did your father ever tell you how he got it?"

"A sultan gave it to him, I think." Belle squinted trying to recall the details. It'd been so long since he last told the story—he'd relayed it to entertain his family, and her mother would show it off. After she died and bequeath the ring to Belle, Maurice didn't tell the story anymore. "I think he said the sultan had suspected his grand vizier was planning a coup against him, so he disguised himself as a peasant and observed the vizier in his dealings outside the palace. My father encountered him when the sultan was accosted by a group of thieves in the marketplace—they threatened him for his money. My father and his entourage intervened, not knowing who the sultan really was. He told my father of the suspicious vizier and warned him of his treachery. My father decided to send one of his own men to observe the vizier. The knight eventually returned and informed my father of a potential plot he'd overheard when the vizier met with the leader of a mercenary band. My father went straight to the sultan to inform him of what he learned, giving the sultan enough information to expose the traitors. The sultan then revealed himself as the peasant whom my father had saved. In exchange for his help on both occasions, he gave my father the ring – a family heirloom. I can't remember for certain if the sultan said the ring once housed a genii or bore some kind of protective magic."

"He gave that up just because some foreigner happened to save his life?" Rumplestiltskin tutted. "He overvalued the services your father rendered."

An angry spike of heat shot up Belle's spine directly to her head. "My father did a brave thing, and the sultan saw fit to show his appreciation. _Don't _mock them. If someone saved your life, how would you reward them?"

"I doubt _anyone_ would try to save my life," he answered with a giggle. "I'm also not that easy to kill."

Taking a breath to calm herself, Belle eyed the imp. "Well, if there were a way to kill you, or at least hurt you, wouldn't you appreciate it if someone saved you?"

"Of course I would, dearie. It's just that _I'm_ the one who steps in and helps people, not the other way around. And I establish my price ahead of time."

"What was my father supposed to do? Offer to help the poor man for something in return at the very moment the sultan was being robbed?"

Rumplestiltskin flicked his hand upward, as if that were the obvious conclusion. "Exactly!"

"Well," a frowning Belle sharply retorted, "my father isn't like you." Her mood darkened quite suddenly. All this talk about Maurice reopened the pain his death had left on her heart. She was partly aware after a minute that she'd referred to her father in the present. She expected Rumplestiltskin to correct her. Instead an awkward silence passed between them. He must have sensed her change in attitude. Either out of a desire to lighten the mood or to change the subject, he shrugged and flippantly replied, "Most people aren't."

Belle's arms and hands suddenly felt like they were filled with mortar. She stopped her work. Memories both old and new seeped into her consciousness like floodwaters. They were all she had left of her father. An intangible but hefty weight descended on her. The world seemed to be coming to an end. Oh, gods, she was going to cry. In front of Rumplestiltskin, who couldn't have cared less about her plight, and her tears would only remind him of something external to his concerns. Or maybe it was her pride—a noblewoman's pride, which she tried to counteract with humility—that reeled at the idea of crying in front of anyone. But at this moment she felt like an abandoned child. Her strength gave out. She unraveled without being able to stop it. Worse than that, she _wanted _to unravel. Being brave and holding in all her grief was killing her more than she realized.

It would be fruitless trying to elicit sympathy or consolation from Rumplestiltskin. She didn't dare let herself look at him when she got up and whispered, "Excuse me," then walked to the opposite corner. Even more ridiculous was her attempt to run away from this humiliation; there was nowhere to run. He'd hear her loud and clear no matter where she went in the cell.

The surge of sobs couldn't be abated. She crouched on the floor and, bracing herself against the wall with her head while her arms hugged her in a vice grip, let it come. She pressed her mouth against her knees. The skirts muffled her weeping. That much she could do. If only she could stop her frame from shaking and her lungs from burning with every gasp and sob. Nothing could hinder them, though—not even the intrusive knock on the door and the sound of a tray passing through the slot. She couldn't think on its implications while the pain held her in this chokehold. The only thought that entered her mind was that she wanted the guard to go away. She didn't have an appetite, anyway.

That fact did change after a while, though the exact amount of time eluded her. Belle couldn't tell how long she went on. Probably longer than she should've with Rumplestiltskin sitting by and having to put up with her noise. That must have been the reason that, a few minutes after the guard brought her food, she heard the tray slide over the floor in her direction until it nudged her bottom. He wanted her to eat and stop crying. She didn't. It was still some time before she looked at the bread and soup, and even longer before she entertained the possibility that she was peckish. The bread earned her attention first. Her little fingers picked at it and placed the tiny crumbs on her tongue to test herself. Her appetite returned like a cautious, frightened kitten. She still wiped away tears, but her breathing grew less sporadic and broken. When she couldn't eat any more, she turned far enough around to observe Rumplestiltskin.

Her behavior didn't seem to distress or interest him. He was still spinning. The straw pile to his right was once again nearly depleted. A different hunger filled her stiffening legs and cramped ankles. After standing up, Belle repeated the same motion of grabbing a large quantity of straw and setting it beside the magical spinner. She noticed the startled way he turned upon hearing her move to see what she was doing. Yet his face went stony when she stood by him and he looked up at her. He didn't want to betray anything, or he didn't know how to react. Belle couldn't decide which was true. Maybe both. She must've looked wretched with her tear-stained face, puffy eyes, ratty hair and soiled garments. A real fright—much more than him. The idea managed to bring back a smile to her face.

"What?" Rumplestiltskin asked, suddenly wary of her.

Belle shook her head, not wanting to answer. Then she changed her mind. Her curiosity likewise returned almost full-force, eagerly hoping to earn a meaningful response from the imp. "I was just thinking—you try to look frightening with your clothes and your expressions, but I'm pretty sure I'm more of a fright than you right now."

Rumplestiltskin looked her over. "Well, you _could_ use a bath."

The young beauty laughed harshly. "Take it up with the king. I heard once he lets his prisoners have a wash only right before they're executed."

"No wonder these dungeons are so rank." The imp wrinkled his nose most disapprovingly.

This time Belle laughed more freely, if only for a second. Her eyes still itched with dryness and tears. She rubbed them and regarded Rumplestiltskin with a guilty frown. "I'm sorry about . . . _that_." She pointed toward the corner. "It's just . . . I miss my father." Belle wanted to say more. Her brain decided against it and instead jumbled all the many words she needed to express and expel from her system.

Rumplestiltskin made a hand gesture, while dismissive, was almost forgiving. "No matter." His gaze retreated and he resumed spinning.

The young woman's heart pattered with increased tempo. It was hard for Belle to determine if he was demonstrating kindness, or if he simply didn't care enough to be bothered by her grief. His manner, while often irreverent and even callous, didn't come across as heartlessly cold. Yet she didn't feel any more comfortable believing that he was saying or doing anything out of _kindness_. To believe that someone was being truly kind was to seduce oneself into trusting and relying on that person. Belle had learned that lesson before, though in less extreme situations. People could commit kind acts that masked less noble intentions. Manipulation could be passed off as charity or concern. It hurt her head and heart to think on such behavior, and it was ruining her improving mood.

Her eyes drifted over to the corner and the tray of barely touched bread and cold soup. Inspired, Belle departed from Rumplestiltskin only to return a second later with the loaf of bread in hand. She gave him a tap on the shoulder and said, "Here."

Rumplestiltskin's odd eyes widened when he saw her offering. "I'm not hungry," she explained before he could reject it. "It'll go to waste otherwise. You've been here all morning and you need your strength."

The thin, scale-covered mouth twisted as owlish eyes studied the bread. He didn't reach for it. "_This_ is what they expect you to live on?"

"It's not _that_ bad. A little hard, yes, and sometimes there's mold, but nothing that will kill you. Aren't you hungry?"

"I don't get hungry while I spin." That may have been true, but Rumplestiltskin acted as if the bread were about to come to life and bite his nose off.

Sighing, Belle trudged back to the corner and picked up the tray. She returned the bread to its place, side-by-side with the bowl of soup (more like boiled water mixed with cabbage juice), and came back to set the whole thing next to Rumplestiltskin's seat, a short distance from the gold. "In case you change your mind."

The sorcerer pshawed at the idea. "Oh, I'm _sure_ I will."

Belle's humor returned with his sarcastic response. It stayed with her as she sat and rolled up the newly spun gold. But it was again disrupted. Looking at the tray, she mentally relived the moment when the guard came by with it. She'd been in the corner, and Rumplestiltskin . . .

"Oh!" Her face and body became awash with panic. "The guard! Did he see you when he came?"

Rumplestiltskin scoffed. "Of course he didn't see me. As I said, you're taking credit for this. Did you think I didn't know that he'd be coming by to bring you food, or that he will come again in the evening?"

Feeling foolish, Belle stared at her lap. "Where did you go?"

"Don't fret, dearie!" he teased and scolded simultaneously. "I always honor my agreements. I will disappear when needed to maintain our little _charade_, but I won't depart until my end of the deal is complete."

"Oh, no, I believe you!" said Belle quickly, looking up. "But you _do_ leave the cell when the guard comes around?"

Rumplestiltskin's eyes lit up after a moment of thought. "Ohhhhh. You're wondering if I make myself _invisible_." He giggled loudly. "Afraid I'll do something _untoward_?"

Belle watched his gesticulating hands, all at once worried. "_Can_ you make yourself invisible?"

The imp released the wheel and flourished a hand. "I can do many things. Why shouldn't I be able to make myself _invisible_?"

She wished he'd stop saying that word so dramatically. He was both scaring her and making her want to laugh. "Well, can you, or can't you?"

Leaning sideways toward her, Rumplestiltskin stared unwaveringly into her eyes. His were shadowed from the sunlight, turning from murky brownish-green to coffee-black. It felt as though they were reaching for her, and she wasn't sure if that frightened or excited her. "Are you saying you would like a demonstration?" he queried in a hiss.

In spite of her quaking hands and the crimson color imbuing her face, Belle found a grain of courage to help her hold her ground. "Perhaps," she said, pushing any shakiness out of her voice. "Just so I know what I'm dealing with."

His mouth curled up on one side. "Are you sure that's a safe request?"

Her front teeth clenched her bottom lip. No doubt it wasn't safe. Neither was having a dark wizard in a cell with her in the first place. "I trust you."

It was a naïve move. Did she really trust him? She had no reason to. Whatever intuition had guided her to bestow it was on to something, though. The grin he'd displayed to her discomfort melted into a slack, disbelieving frown. His dark eyes rounded. For a trickster and an ancient, powerful magician, Rumplestiltskin didn't require much to surprise him. Or Belle had an uncanny knack for catching him off-guard. The discovery buoyed her confidence and stilled her anxious hands. She stopped biting her lip, too, and a good thing. Rumplestiltskin had started eying her mouth just before she answered his question. Now he pulled back to drink in the short, simple words.

Although she no longer trembled, Belle's nerves sat on edge from waiting and watching him. He glared right back at her, eyes keen but expression shuttered. As if needing an outlet for his hidden emotions, Rumplestiltskin drummed his dexterous fingers on his thigh. Belle lowered her gaze to them for a moment. The braided thread of twine and straw lounged over the same thigh. It should've concerned her that they were wasting time with this stand-off when he needed to be spinning. To her delayed chagrin, Belle was more curious about how often Rumplestiltskin cleaned his slate-grey nails, and how long it took him to don such snug trousers.

Two gold-speckled hands suddenly clapped on Rumplestiltskin's leather-covered knees. The imp bounced to his feet. Without a word, he snapped his fingers. A purple cloud materialized out of nowhere and enveloped him. The cloud shortly dispersed and left nothing in its wake.

Holding in a gasp, Belle pushed the gold out of her lap and stood. She fixed her eyes on the spot where Rumplestiltskin had been. When she realized how pointless that was, she switched to listening like a pointer hound and anticipating a breath of air from his movements or his lungs. She turned slowly, grasping her skirts as if her survival depended on it. She tried to make as little sound as possible. The cell remained silent. It offered little space to maneuver in, which made her begin to doubt that Rumplestiltskin was still there at all.

"Hello?" she whispered. She swallowed in spite of herself. "Rumplestil—"

Something tugged on the back of her skirt. It's been a strong, purposeful tug. Belle yelped and whirled around. She saw nothing, but a quiet titter emanated from the air a few feet away from her. She growled an "_ooh_" through her teeth while gathering her dress even closer to her. "That wasn't funny."

Another stream of giggles came, slightly louder but more elusive. It bounced around the cell walls and threw off Belle's sense of where the imp had gone. She tried suddenly throwing herself in a random direction to surprise him, but met only the air and, far too frequently, a wall. Her failed attempts earned more disembodied laughter.

"All right, you've made your point!" she cried after many minutes of this. When she saw the wheel begin to spin, she jumped towards it and swatted her arms around. Nothing. "I believe you! Enough already!" When he still didn't reappear, Belle circled round and round the spinning wheel. "Come now, you have to get back to work. You've had your fun. Just—"

Belle shrieked again when something she couldn't see interrupted her stride and sent her hurtling forward. Her arms and hands scraped against the floor, managing to protect her face from impact. Against her better sensibilities, Belle let the puerile trick rile her up. Back on her feet, she stomped to the spinning wheel and picked up the stool. She marched up and down the miniscule chamber and branded the furniture the way a soldier does with a machete to plunder his way through thick jungle foliage. The imp's giggles sounded less and less controlled, which made Belle hopeful that he could no longer help himself. She followed them and swung the stool his way and that.

"I said enough!" she huffed after a prolonged and vain pursuit of her tormentor. "At this point I'd rather be at Dathomir's mercy. Stop fooling around!"

For once she had her way, though not in the way she wanted it. A pair of arms – _visible_ arms – snagged her waist and pulled her back toward a warm body. The move shocked her enough that she dropped the stool before she twisted around to face Rumplestiltskin, just in time to endure another fit of ear-ringing giggles that shook his body and nearly infected her. Belle forced her peeved grimace to stay in place.

"You're going to alert the guards if you keep being so noisy." Her petite hands grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket to intimidate him. He only looked more tickled-pink.

"I wouldn't worry about that. As soon as you started talking my ear off, I put up a little barrier around the cell so no one could eavesdrop."

Belle was tempted to feel at ease knowing this, but she knew she should be apprehensive. If he decided to take advantage of their utter isolation in the worst possible way, she wouldn't be able to call out for help. The likelihood that she was in such a scenario right now crossed her mind. He clutched her against him, though not in a hurtful manner. His fingers splayed against her back in a firm but not unbreakable hold. Her arms, though pressed between their chests, still had some mobility. She tested them by moving her hands from the lapels to his shoulders. She nearly regretted it when the mirth evaporated from Rumplestiltskin's features. Suddenly he looked as uncertain as she felt about what they were doing. Seeing him almost nervous when _he_ was the one with his arms around her helped Belle relax. An unexpected smile came, albeit one as awkward as any other she'd given today. Her gaze fled from his face and migrated down his coat. She noticed for the first time that the vest he wore underneath was composed from a similar material, only in black.

"I've been meaning to ask you—what is this made of?"

"Huh?" Rumplestiltskin roused himself with a blink and a headshake. "Oh, uh, dragonhide."

"Really?" Belle gasped in shock and intrigue. "How did you get it?"

He shrugged. "From a dragonslayer. How else?"

"You mean, you didn't slay it yourself?" Not certain why, she found herself glad that he wasn't going around killing unsuspecting dragons just to spice up his wardrobe.

The chuckle that answered her was rough and dry. "Oh, no, dearie. I've never been one for slaying monsters myself. I get other people to do it for me."

Why did he not sound delighted admitting that? He seemed to enjoy using other people for his own purposes. Belle didn't have the courage to ask or inspect his face. She concentrated on the jacket and running her fingers along its tough, glistening surface. It couldn't be easy to move in. Still, it had its aesthetic appeal. Its bizarre design and material impressed her. Fascinated her. Mesmerized her the way his hands had while he bound straw and twine together and spun.

Her tactile examinations were interrupted by Rumplestiltskin clearing his throat. "I see you still haven't relaced your corset."

Not sure how he knew that, Belle looked down her dress. He was right. She hadn't . . . Belle shot a glare up at him and shoved herself out of his grasp, scoffing in offense and hiding her bosom behind her arms.

The self-satisfied smile on Rumplestiltskin's lips did nothing to make her forgive him or want to get anywhere near him again. That turned out to be his intention, for he instantly sauntered over to the forsaken stool Belle had wielded just a minute ago, snatched it up and returned to the spinning wheel to finish his work.

Belle kept to her duty of fetching straw for him, but she no longer cared about rolling up the gold. She preferred sit behind him and lean against the straw. It provided her an opportunity to lace up the undergarment the imp had the audacity to gawk at through the top of her dress. As the pile shrunk with each succeeding batch of spun gold, Belle seized a chance to steal away a handful of straw—about the same size as what she gave to Rumplestiltskin per delivery—and arranged it into a makeshift mattress in the corner. Rumplestiltskin didn't notice it until the rest of the straw was gone, and a mountain of gold thread squatted next to the wheel.

"I know I shouldn't," Belle interjected in response to his inquiring eyebrow, "but the bare floor does a number on the body after a while. If Dathomir wants to throw a fit over it, let him."

Rumplestiltskin made no further comment, even if his eye did linger over her sleeping space with a mysterious expression she wished she could comprehend. It was hardly worth her concern. Her relief from seeing all the straw spun by sunset overshadowed everything else. She let herself smile at the imp again when he bowed with mock chivalry.

"Thank you, kind sir," she said in the same manner while curtseying. Then she became serious. Belle caught him by the hands before he could disappear in another puff of smoke. "Really, though, thank you." She wanted to say that she knew the ring wasn't what he really desired, and that she appreciated his willingness to do this, anyway. Intuition again intervened. If she spoke the truth, he might be offended and think she viewed him as weaker than he was. Belle couldn't say she understood why he did what he did. All she felt for him was gratitude, even if their arrangement amounted to nothing more than a business deal.

When she said her thanks and looked him in the eye, Rumplestiltskin tensed and squirmed. "We had a deal, dearie."

"I know." That didn't mean she couldn't be grateful. She gave his lizard-skin hands a squeeze and let them go. They hovered in the air, flailing their appendages like frantic spiders. Eventually Rumplestiltskin dropped his left hand while the other rubbed its thumb against the knuckle of the forefinger. His eyes appeared equally uncertain of what to do. Finally he turned away and took a few steps toward the door. Belle started, wondering if he meant to make a more conventional exit. The notion vanished when he spun around and executed another over-the-top bow. "Until we meet again, Lady Belle." Then he snapped his fingers, dissolved into air, and was gone.

The tired Lady Belle, suddenly feeling more alone than the night before, smiled ruefully to herself. "Until we meet again."


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you, thank you, thank you all again for your reviews and love! I'm thrilled to know so many people are enjoying the story. For those of you curious about "Pearls of the Deep" or "Entirely Up To You", they will be updated in due time. No promises on how soon, but most likely between the end of this week and Christmas. For those in the middle of finals, good luck to you!

* * *

King Dathomir waited to grace Belle with his presence until night had chased away the sun's light. The imprisoned beauty was sitting on top of the bed of straw and recalling a few favorite stories she'd committed to memory. Watching Rumplestiltskin had put her in the mood to dig up tales related to spinning. She hazarded to think her mother had whispered a bedtime yarn about a girl who lived with her stepmother and stepsister. The girl was kind, hardworking and uncomplaining, starting her chores in the early morning hours and carrying on into the evening to the point that her bones ached. Her stepsister, on the other hand, was too lazy to be bothered to help, and the stepmother allowed her to loll around the house while the girl labored relentlessly.

One day the girl was spinning next to a well (why near a well Belle didn't understand—her mother had no answer to offer when she asked about it), and she pricked her finger on the spindle. When she went to wash off the spindle, she accidentally dropped it. The girl feared her stepmother's wrath, so she jumped in after it. To her surprise, the well's bottom turned out to be a portal to another realm—a beautiful world filled with magic and strange, fantastic creatures. She encountered a finely-dressed lady—had she been a fairy? A witch? Belle couldn't remember. In any case, the woman took the girl on as her servant. After a time she became so impressed with the girl's industrious and gentle character that she let her return home with a generous gift of gold. The stepmother was outraged to see her stepdaughter adorned so lavishly, so she made her own daughter prick her finger and leap into the well. The mysterious woman quickly perceived the stepsister's idleness and sent her back home blackened with soot and tar.

Belle smiled upon reaching the end of the tale. How curious that she not only remembered a story about spinning, but it involved a mysterious, otherworldly benefactor and gold. At least Belle had no stepmother or stepsisters to worry about. Just an imposing king.

And shortly thereafter the man himself appeared, flanked with guards who crowded outside the door while he entered. Though weary and hungry, Belle stood and curtsied to the king as she'd been taught from childhood. He thundered in with heavy stride and right away spied the tall pile of gold thread. The light in Dathomir's eyes when they touched on the sight startled her. Disturbed her. He looked like a man luststruck, hungry for what he saw. He knelt down and touched a strand at the top of the heap and rubbed it between his fingers. His breath practically shuddered. Such a passionate fervor for something that, while monetarily valuable, could never return his reverence. Did he really love gold the way ordinary people love one another? Belle loved books—at times more than certain individuals—but they could never completely replace friends or even good company. She quaked when Dathomir's gaze moved to her, and she saw for a tiny moment the same ravenous fire directed her way. But a mask of restraint drew itself across his eyes like a curtain. He stood as straight and dignified as ever.

"I must say I'm impressed." He marched over to her. The floor shook with his steps. Belle slowly inhaled and clutched her dress, trying to not look like a cornered rabbit. "Such a fine talent, milady. Such a _useful_ talent." The hunger crept back into his countenance, now in his voice as well as his eyes. His gloved hand, smelling of horses and blood, gingerly scooped up Belle's. She felt not only his eyes, but the eyes of his men all over her, even through the barred door. She didn't dare look their way. It took immeasurable steel to hold Dathomir's gaze, and still she flinched when he grasped her other hand with just as much deceptive gentleness.

"Oh, Lady Belle," King Dathomir breathed, leaning down to her face. "Where have you been all my life?"

The impassioned tone nearly smote Belle with horror until she looked him fully in the face and detected the faint hint of mockery in the glint of those cold grey eyes. He made himself sound as though he would wed her—or bed her—there and then. Why did he enjoy this so much? Why did men enjoy toying with her and torturing her? Rumplestiltskin did, too, though perhaps not to this degree. Because she was pretty? Because she didn't scream and spit obscenities at them, or swagger like a man? Because she appeared weak and helpless? The muscles in her neck constricted and her teeth clenched behind soft, sealed lips. Her tolerance for Dathomir's presence was rapidly disappearing.

"I take it you are pleased, then." Belle forced her throat and tongue into obedience. She'd held her own against him this far. Now that she'd fulfilled his desire, what more could she fear from him?

"Oh, I am." Dathomir lightened his tone raised his head to give Belle space to breathe. "You've done very well."

"Then you will let me go."

A pregnant silence preceded the shockwave of laughter that Dathomir released inside the cell, and which his guards were quick to accentuate with their own. Belle started from the volume of the sounds as well as their meaning. Dathomir spoke before she could string a question together.

"Who said anything about letting you go?"

An unladylike sputter burst from her mouth. "We had a deal! We agreed—"

"I agreed to _spare your life_. Were those not your words?"

A cold breath of air brushed the back of Belle's neck, or so she thought. It was more likely she was descending into a state of shock and terror. Those _had_ been her words. A stuttered gasp set her windpipe burning as she attempted to fight back a sob. How could she have been so dense? So _stupid_! She'd been more careful with her wording with Rumplestiltskin, yet she'd allowed this little detail to slip her by. Oh, she would live all right. No doubt Dathomir had every intention of letting her live out the rest of her days in this dungeon until she died of disease or old age.

"Your Majesty," she peeped. Any other words died like lonely embers on her tongue. Her dignity would not allow her to beg for her freedom yet. Her insensible pride would not let her to kneel or crawl for this man, and that fact further fuelled her self-directed anger.

"Do not despair, my fair spinner." A rattlesnake's hiss was more welcome than Dathomir's joviality. "I reward those who serve me well. I have agreed to spare your life for this gold you've spun for me. If you want more from me, you will have to spin more gold."

Belle almost failed to stop her eyes from rounding at this statement. She bowed her head to hide her expression. The angle let her glimpse at her grubby toes sticking out from underneath the hem of her dress. Black streaks obscured both her pale skin and the tiny rhinestones the studded the shimmering, tarnished fabric.

"But first," said Dathomir, "I think a bath and a change of rooms is in order."

A pair of guards took their cue. Before Belle could think or speak, they clamped their hands around her shoulders and dragged her out of the cell. Refusing to be hauled around like a sack, Belle jogged to match their pace and refrained from arguing or struggling. The urge to resist arose now and then with the rough shoves and unfeeling snickers when her clumsy feet caught on the uneven stones of the corridor floor or the stairs that brought them down to a room more putrid than her cell. Belle briefly assumed she'd been brought to her new chamber of confinement until the guards started tearing at her dress. Panic robbed her of sense and restraint. She screamed and fought off their hands, which gave them permission to summon two more guards to capture her wrists and hold them out to her sides while her original escorts finished stripping her. The sight of more guards carrying in a large bucket of water made Belle feel foolish for the tears that coursed down her face. She swallowed any further impulse to weep.

Dathomir observed the washing ritual himself. He granted her the small mercy of having two female attendants clean her instead of the guards whose eyes danced up and down her body before the king sent them on their way. Belle's relief decreased as the women assaulted with sponges and unkind hands – they were as disinclined to treat her with compassion as everyone else. Still, at least they didn't ogle her. They only grimaced with weary wrinkled brows and chapped lips. She distracted herself by reading their faces and figures. Their clothes were decorated with stains, rips and dust. The skin hung from their arms and necks, and streaks of grey ran from their temples to the napes of their necks. Time and circumstance hadn't been merciful these women. That made it easier for Belle to forgive them for their brusqueness.

How many people suffered within the walls of Dathomir's castle? How many more outside it suffered under the thumb of his rule? She really had no idea. Maybe he was actually an effective king at a distance. In person nothing but his good looks recommended him. Her opinion of him continued to erode as he watched her as the women scrubbed her most intimate places. His expression was both cold and possessively intrigued. Snapping her gaze away from him, Belle instructed herself to look at him as infrequency as possible. Whenever the women forced her to face his way, she closed her eyes.

She felt sore yet refreshed when the women were through. After they dried her with a towel that chaffed her and tore away lose flakes of dry skin, the king ordered them to dress her in the same clothes as before, then commanded that the guards bring her to down to one of the larger dungeons. "You will have your spinning wheel and straw in the morning," he announced to her casually, not even waiting for her to be completely dressed before he waved his farewell and left. Belle did not grieve his departure. Her only concern lay with the guards, and whether they would behave themselves without the king overseeing them.

It seemed the monarch had given his men very strict instructions to not touch her beyond taking her by the arms and delivering her to the new cell. For that much Belle was willing to be grateful to Dathomir. It did not endear him any more to her, but she was willing to believe him capable of an ounce of decency. She nearly granted him more when she observed the chamber she'd been reassigned to. More spacious, less rancid, and a slightly larger, although another slim window lingered high in the wall. Sparse shards of moonlight fell through the opening to let Belle see where she was. Her relief was again short-lived. The room was a welcomed change, but she soon understood its purpose. The king wanted her to spin more gold. Not just more gold to add to what he now had, but an even _larger_ quantity of gold. Dathomir was planning on filling the cell with as much straw as he could squeeze into it.

A whine squeaked out of Belle's throat. She picked the warmest corner and sat down. So much for her bed of straw. A larger dungeon was no more comfortable. Tears filled her eyes again, but they were tears of exhaustion—a need for release. With no one to witness this time, Belle breathed deeply and let them fall. Her mind cycled through everything she'd endured this week—the terror of invasion, the betrayal of an alleged ally, the anxiety of separation from her loved ones, the agony of permanently losing them, and the helplessness of being some king's tool that spouted undeserved wealth for him. These things nibbled at her strength like rats on a wedge of cheese, and there was nothing she could do. Nothing but to play along and hope that Dathomir's satisfaction elevated to admiration, maybe even respect.

How to do that, though, without the power to spin gold? She had nothing to offer Rumplestiltskin now, except the promise of something precious in the future. Was she that desperate? There was no room to negotiate leniency with Dathomir. To say she could spin gold, do so, and then tell him that the power had unexpectedly disappeared would be madness. She'd be begging for death. The only remaining choice was ask Rumplestiltskin to come back.

Belle held it off. She let an hour slip past without surrendering to her fear. Her mind turned over every possibility. Escape, bribery, acceptance of death with her head held high—all qualified for a moment's consideration. How much worse would it be to whore herself to the guards than to place herself in the debt of a dangerous sorcerer? Well, there was one difference. She couldn't say with confidence that the guards would keep their end of the deal, or take the deal at all. Rumplestiltskin would do both. That much she could count on. Every minute of thinking through various scenarios brought Belle closer to a conclusion that left her with the same ill feeling she would've had looking over the edge of a cliff.

She did not wholly shy away from the edge. There was a way to combine two of her options. Offering sexual favor could still work, though with a new recipient in mind. It was the only thing of value Belle thought she still possessed. She was a virgin, too, which might ripen the deal.

For all the coolness she tried to muster meditating on such an idea, her guts squirmed. She spent precious energy stilling them. There was still a chance, she reasoned, that Rumplestiltskin wouldn't find the offer appealing. He hadn't set it on the table during their first encounter. She wondered why. Maybe a creature as old as he—if he was indeed as ancient as rumors indicated—had outlived his libido. Or he regarded human females the way people regard pigs or sheep—alien and undesirable.

Or he simply didn't find _her_ attractive. Belle wasn't insensible to her beauty and the way many men responded to it, yet she did not fancy herself the devastating fantasy of anyone's dreams. Dathomir, who had admitted that she was beautiful, seemed as devoid of sexual interest in her as Rumplestiltskin. What strange men she was surrounded by. But she was probably overrating her looks. And, besides, she'd been living in filth for the last week. Only now could she imagine she appeared halfway decent, what with the thorough scrub she just received. Remembering it gave her hope that, should she make the offer, Rumplestiltskin would find her less repulsive.

Belle pushed the hair out of her face and stood. Her hands smoothed out the rolls in her dress. A blush passed over her face at how ridiculous she must have looked primping herself, but adjusting her clothes and hair served as much to bolster her courage as it did to make her more enticing. In a way she was glad she didn't have a mirror to ridicule her.

As she straightened the bodice again, a theatrical voice sang behind her, "Even amongst brambles and weeds, a rose's beauty never falters."

It never failed. She should have grown used to it, but Rumplestiltskin's sudden presence sent jolt of surprise up Belle's spine and sent her into a brief panic attack. Thankfully the effects of his appearing without warning were becoming more and more short-lived. Waiting first to calm down, Belle turned to the imp and huffed. Rumplestiltskin stood with his hands cradled in front of him and wore a very wide grin that forced him to squint. It was almost too wide to hide his crooked teeth.

"Isn't this getting old?" Belle sharply asked, not able or really willing to rein in her tongue.

"Not at all!" He was beaming with pride. She wished she wasn't torn between slapping him and smiling back. "Red roses are the loveliest roses of all. And you're sporting a very lovely shade of red right now!"

Belle might have taken his remark as flirtatious had he not succumbed to a giggling fit. No, he simply delighted in embarrassing her. Sadly she found it just a little amusing. His behavior infuriated her on the one hand, but she could hardly remain furious at him for acting like a delighted child. Well, she _could_, but fatigue and worry quelled any impulse to gripe over his rudeness. So Belle clasped her hands behind her and played on his good humor. "A lady must do what she can to look lovely, I suppose."

Rumplestiltskin sniggered again. Then his attention sharpened. He still smiled, but not with that juvenile openness she was beginning to recognize. There were more teeth in this smile. His eyes roamed, too, taking her in. "And to win her freedom, yes? How goes it with the king?"

Belle's humor vaporized like morning mist. A weight returned to her body, particularly in the center of her stomach. She straightened and held her chin level to counterbalance it. "He has decided to spare my life, but . . ."

"But he wants you to spin more gold. And you must if you ever hope to escape these dungeons."

Another chill ran down her neck. A few seconds were all Belle needed to link the threads together.

"You _knew_ he would want more gold. You knew he wouldn't release me the first time."

She shouldn't have sounded or felt so hurt. One could not expect any less from the infamous dealmaker. This was Rumplestiltskin, a creature she could not call friend or even ally. The situation forced her to rely on him for help. He was not here out of good will. And yet learning she'd been misled still stung.

"What did you expect, dearie? Dathomir loves gold more than anything. Of course one day's worth wouldn't leave him satisfied!"

Against her will, Belle's eyes turned down to her feet. Still a fool for kings and sorcerers. But she wouldn't give in to self-loathing yet. Pride may crumble into dust, but her dignity—something purer and rooted in common humanity, not social status or even womanly worth—would remain untenable even in the face of humiliation. It would do her no good to hate herself over being taken in and made the tool of men. At some point, hopefully after this ordeal, she would forgive herself. For now the injury, which burned like seared flesh, would have to be borne. She _would_ bear it, even if she doubted her own strength.

"Then I'm afraid I must ask you to help me again," she whispered after a long, thoughtful bout of silence.

"So it seems." A pair of speckled fingers hooked underneath her chin and tilted it up. Rumplestiltskin withdrew them as soon as their eyes met. His hooded, murky orbs stared into hers. Belle couldn't say whether or not he was enjoying seeing her so wretched. She checked the lines of his face for a telltale wrinkle or twitch. None. His visage emoted nothing but neutrality.

Belle balled her hands and kept her focus locked on the greenish-brown depths of his irises. So large and engulfing. She felt miniscule in their presence, like a krill gawking into the mouth of a blue whale. How could she be brave when confronting such caverns?

_Do the brave thing, and bravery will follow_.

"What do you require in return?" she asked with suggestive softness. Her limbs remained stiff.

Rumplestiltskin took several steps back to Belle's dismay. Either he didn't understand her meaning or he was determined to extract the promise of a yet-to-be-obtained reward. Belle opened her mouth to put her indecent offer into words. He cut her off with a raised finger.

"How about . . . your dress?"

The words hit her like a burst of light. Belle blinked away the blinding shock. "My dress?" A single glance at it left her still baffled. Frayed threads, black-and-brown spots, empty sockets where rhinestones had been—it was a mess. He must have been jesting. "I don't understand."

"I will spin straw into gold for the king tomorrow if you give me your dress." His tone floated high, but it was controlled and serious.

Too many questions occupied Belle's thoughts for her to even think straight. "But it's ruined," she squeaked at last.

Rumplestiltskin shrugged. "Nothing I can't handle." He raised his hands and slowly wiggled his fingers. A breeze rose out of nowhere, as did a purple cloud like the one the imp always disappeared in. Only now it encompassed Belle. She stopped herself from gasping and instead closed her mouth so as not to inhale the vapor. Air and smoke swirled around her and briefly obscured her vision of everything. A whiff of enchanted dust tickled the inside of her nose. It had that sweet and sharp odor she detected on Rumplestiltskin the first day. Just as before, it left her a little dizzy.

When the mist dissolved, Belle didn't feel any different except for the vague sensation that she'd been touched by magic. Rumplestiltskin laughed and spread his hands, suggesting his work was done and that he was pleased with himself. As usual.

Belle looked down at her dress and yelped. The yards of silk shined clean and bright again, restored to their former glory. Not a jewel was out of place, and not a single loose thread could be found. Even the hem, which had suffered the worst from trailing across the grungy floor, was made whole and spotless. Belle had quite the difficult time picking up her jaw off the floor.

"But . . . but why? Why do you want my dress?" That should have been her first question. Incredulity was inhibiting logic at the moment.

"I like the fabric and color," said Rumplestiltskin with another shrug, as if that were all the explanation required. When Belle's dumbfounded expression refused to change, he added, "I've been looking for material for a new suit. Something for dressier occasions, like a ball. You may find it hard to believe, but dragonhide is not the easiest to move around in."

The young beauty, an alleged model of refinement, teetered on the brink of hysterical laughter. She couldn't understand what he was talking about. He attended balls? Needed a new suit? Made from a woman's dress? Were she to laugh and declare just how absurd this all was, however, he might become angry and change his price. Oh, if he wanted her dress, he could have it. She didn't care if he just wanted it to wear in secret, or even publicly!

"Deal!" she cried.

The imp quietly twittered and clapped his hands. "Good. Now take it off."

Ah. The giddy feeling the previous moment's hilarity had brought disappeared. Belle was actually glad for it. Now his request made a bit more sense. She wore undergarments, of course, but this particular dress' design required a sleeveless corset and a chemise held up by pins and cut low on her breasts. The silk provided poor insulation, but it was better than being left in her knickers, especially at night. The air in the dungeon made the skin that was already exposed stand up in goosepimples.

A deal was a deal, however. So Belle turned around and started to push the sleeves down her arms. Pausing, she checked behind her. Rumplestiltskin was still facing her with eyes riveted to her back.

"Umm, would you mind . . .?" She pointed her finger downward and twirled it.

For some reason the imp appeared surprised by her request, not to mention amused. Yes, whether or not he watched her undress wouldn't make much difference since she had no other clothes to change into. That didn't mean he couldn't show a _little_ courtesy. Nevertheless, at her behest he did pivot away, and Belle made sure to thank him before she resumed disentangling herself from the gown.

At least it was not as difficult as getting out of a corset. Belle had it off in a matter of seconds. In the meantime she wondered what Rumplestiltskin's intentions really were. This might simply have been the first step toward what she'd been planning to offer him in the first place. Then again, maybe he got a jolly out of degrading her. Better not to assume either way, she decided before she gathered up the dress and, using it like a shield, brought it to him with business-like detachment.

The imp twirled back round at the clearing of her throat. "Very good!" His claws snatched the puffy lump of silk and lace. Belle stepped back, now protected by only a cream-colored petticoat, chemise and corset, and let her arms hang to the sides despite how much she wanted to salvage her modesty or rub herself warm. She put only a few feet between them so Rumplestiltskin could get an eyeful, and to make it clear that if he liked what he saw, she wouldn't run away.

His dark eyes did turn up to her after wasting a moment examining the dress. He looked at it, sniffed it, ruffled and rubbed it, even seemed to listen to how it sounded as he crinkled the material. Only after he was satisfied did he pay her further attention. When his gaze alighted on her half-naked form, his grin fell away.

Belle scowled and bit her lip. This didn't look promising. "Well?"

Rumplestiltskin dragged his eyes slowly up and down her figure, as if he didn't know what to make of her. Was she really that odd-looking to him? Another blush imbued her cheeks. Nervous hands fiddled with her skirt to make sure no part of it was riding high. Her heart pounded inside her chest like an angry rhinoceros trying to break free of its prison. His eyes eventually came back up to her face, and when they did she couldn't have run even if she wanted to. Her muscles had solidified into cold marble.

Her companion appeared tense in the shoulders himself, but that tension all at once dropped out of sight as he wrapped his arms around the rolled-up dress and pressed it against him. "It'll do."

To Belle, his crisp response held enough ambiguity to make her daring. A small swell of relief helped her regain mobility. She stepped toward him. "Really?"

"I should say so."

The imp held his spot. Belle, her head abuzz with conflicting inferences, took it as a challenge. He wanted her to come to him willingly. As she came closer, though, she started to shake. For her first experience at intimacy to be an item for trade depressed more than offended her, but to do it with a man she didn't love—and moreso with one she barely knew—left her quaking. What would he be like? Would he just take her the way she imagined the guards taking her were they in his place? Lust-driven and senseless to her well-being? But it wasn't only roughness she feared. To be so close to someone—skin to skin, plus something more—was in itself a terrifying thought. Belle could be a tactile person when the mood took her. She remembered enjoying the feel of her father's ermine-lined cloak under her fingers, and his large wrinkled hands in hers when either of them needed comfort or assurance. With certain people whom she cared about and trusted, touch wasn't a problem. With strangers, she preferred the safety of distance. It did not cross her mind until now that a sexual favor would require her to step well outside her area of comfort. She'd assumed she would endure it like she was enduring everything else.

She had to stop overestimating herself.

The only way to escape her fears was to abandon all thought. She pulled in her focus on the here and now—on Rumplestiltskin and his glittering skin and spidery hands which held her dress captive. The gown was the only thing left between them when she closed the distance. Nothing but their breathing filled the vacuum of quiet around them. The air leaving Rumplestiltskin's nostrils and barely parted lips lightly caressed the tip of Belle's nose. Even in the dark, she could see his expression pinch tighter and tighter with confusion. She almost fancied he'd pulled up the dress to create a buffer between their torsos.

They faced each other without speaking for a few minutes. Belle's knees shook so much they were close to knocking together. She had no idea what was going on in the imp's mind. Hope pressed against hope at the idea that he was solely interested in the dress. A preposterous notion. This payment would serve for only one day's worth of spinning, after all. Was he waiting for her to make the official offer? Once she did, she wouldn't be able to take it back.

No, she couldn't do it. She couldn't take the plunge until she knew for _certain_ that was what he wanted.

"So . . . what now?"

"Now?" Rumplestiltskin furrowed his brow. The loose skin on his neck stretched as he swallowed. "Well . . . it's night, isn't it?"

Belle nodded, though she wondered why he sounded as nervous as she felt. "Yes, it is."

"So . . . we have a long day tomorrow. Which means we . . . we need our sleep."

A century seemed to pass by between when Belle opened her mouth and when sound actually came out. What did come out was the most guttural "_Oh_" she'd ever uttered in her life.

"What?" Rumplestiltskin immediately asked.

"N-n-nothing!" The air felt thin in her lungs. She laughed and gasped and felt a rush of dizziness go straight to her head. "You're right. I think I . . . need to lie down."

Her heart stopped when his hand came to rest on her bare shoulder. "Are you ill?"

Belle shook her head. "I'm fine. I just need sleep, like you said." She turned and hoped to see her straw pile. She didn't, and she remembered it was still in the other cell. It didn't matter. She couldn't look at Rumplestiltskin without experiencing another bout of wooziness. She fled to the corner beyond the sorcerer's gentle touch. After curling up in the nook with her head propped against the far wall, she let herself look askance at him. "See you in a few hours, then."

Wavy tresses brushed the top of the dragonhide collar and coat as Rumplestiltskin tilted his head. "You're sure you're all right?"

"Perfectly," she clipped. "Good night."

Belle didn't look at him again, but she guessed by the snort that he was less than confident in her answer. "Good night, then," he replied in a mimicking tone. She chanced to glance at him again as his form dissolved into purple dust being borne away by an unfelt breeze out the tiny window.

She didn't want to think about what just happened—what _almost_ just happened. She didn't want to think about what it meant that he didn't understand or accept her offer. A frustrating enigma, that man. Belle should've been, and was to a degree, overwhelmed with gratitude at having her decency and virginity spared for at least a little while longer. Yet as she drifted into slumber, her hand crawled up her other arm and grazed the place where Rumplestiltskin's fingers had been. They'd felt cool but soft. They'd belonged to a man who, even with his scales and sharp teeth and unreadable eyes, harbored a morsel of tenderness in his manner. She didn't want to think on that, either. Now and then, however, her dreams slipped beyond her control. A pulsing fog filled her deep inside with a desire she dared not articulate even in thought.

Tonight her dreams remained undisturbed. Tonight she could sleep and wonder with a foolish girl's optimism what might happen in the days to come.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter four, at last! Happy New Year, all. So, I said in chapter one that this fic would be about five chapters long. Hahahaha, no it's not. Will definitely be longer. No more than eight, I should think. (Let's see how long that lasts.) Thank you for all the reviews, follows and faves! I really did not expect this story to be popular.

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A rumble broke through Belle's sleep. For a second she wondered if it was an earthquake. The thought wasn't enough to stir her. Her mind remained in a haze until another rumble bounded through the sky like a legion of horses. That wasn't the sound of an earthquake. Belle pried her eyes open.

The dungeon wasn't as bright as the other had been yesterday. Sunlight didn't dance across the stones or cast shadows in the corners. Clouds hid the sun, and only an incidental lightning flash brightened the room. Belle groaned at the grim weather and nuzzled into her arm. She pulled at the warmth covering her shoulder and brought it higher up. The floor was still terribly cold, but the blanket helped stave off the chill a little.

Her eyes flew open. Belle sat up. She ignored her stretching, aching muscles and looked down at the dark blue blanket covering her. Where did this come from?

No answer came, but the squeaky creak of wood did. Belle knew that noise. Slowly she peered up.

Rumplestiltskin sat in the middle of the cell, his back to her, hands working the wheel and a mountain of gold already flanking him. Around him straw stacks taller than him circled like the wall of a citadel. The scene, familiar yet still bizarre, woke up Belle entirely.

After noticing the blanket, the imp and the straw, Belle also realized that the sorcerer wasn't wearing his dragonhide coat. Even in the gray light of a stormy day, his gold silk shirt simmered. The burgundy vest, richly brocaded, provided a more somber accent to his otherwise flamboyant wardrobe. When he leaned forward to adjust the feed of the straw and twine through the spindle, something else caught her eye. Two braces peeked into view when his vest rode up. They started from the back of his leather trousers and traveled up underneath the vest. They kept the garment from falling down. Good heavens, was the man incapable of wearing trousers that properly fit him?

What a temptation to say that outright. Instead Belle asked, "No coat today?"

Rumplestiltskin glanced out the side of his eye. "Didn't I say dragonhide is difficult to move in?"

"I guess you did." Belle hugged the blanket around her. It gave off a comforting scent she couldn't place. The fabric was woven from soft wool. Not exactly the sort of thing a king obsessed with wealth would have in his castle, nor did it appear to be the sort of thing provided to prisoners. No holes or ratty edges anywhere. Belle still couldn't identify what these odors were. Still, sniffing it evoked memories of picnics in the woods on summer evenings, fresh air and hands smudged with plucked grass.

The sudden pattering of rain disrupted her recollection. Wrapping the blanket around her for warmth and modesty, Belle joined Rumplestiltskin's side but kept her eye on the window. It was too narrow and indented in the wall for the rain to get in—how nice that Dathomir would at least not let her drown.

"A bit chillier today," noted the wizard.

Unable to resist any longer, Belle chuckled. He hadn't meant to amuse her, she knew, but that didn't mean she didn't grasp the humor of the situation. "You don't need to tell me," she said with a smile. She turned to meet his eye. He giggled and looked her way, his gaze flitting up and down quickly. Rumplestiltskin didn't look at all surprised that she had a blanket. Belle had an idea what that meant; she said nothing, not even to herself. Her attention quickly moved to the second stool Rumplestiltskin had positioned to his right. She sent a questioning look.

"Since you seem to enjoy keeping me company," he explained, infusing his words with mocking incredulity that Belle suspected masked real confusion, "I thought I might as well save your delicate rump some pain."

Belle's heart lifted like the rising sun, and a heat like what she experienced last night rekindled. The infamous Rumplestiltskin welcomed her company _and_ had taken her comfort into consideration. Well, no use questioning it for now. Belle showered her companion with another smile and settled down on the stool.

The imp flinched, then cleared his throat. "Oh. Actually, I thought you were going to take it over there. By the gold. So you could . . ."

His quips and airs suddenly left him. How could he appear confident and cunning one minute, then stumble over his words like a nervous schoolboy the next? And why did Belle feel compelled to spare him embarrassment? Maybe she liked those little moments of vulnerability, and she didn't want him to cover them up by her taking advantage. Even if he liked unnerving her, she wouldn't return the favor unless it was justified.

She furrowed her brow in feigned apology. "Sorry. I didn't realize wrapping gold was such an important task."

"Oh, it is," said Rumplestiltskin with a dramatic nod. "Helps me keep track of how much gold I spin . . . and it keeps _you_ busy so you don't distract me."

"Really? I distract you?"

"Yes, with your . . . _chatting._" He wiggled a finger at her on the last word, and his nose twitched like a rabbit's.

Belle gave a miffed huff. "Well, I am sorry you find my conversation so disagreeable—"

"I didn't say that."

She let the annoyed façade fall away. "No?"

"I simply said it was _distracting._" He motioned with his eyes to the gold pile. "Now, if you please . . ."

Belle's playful grin returned, though she dialed it back to avoid racketing up Rumplestiltskin's nerves. She picked up the stool and made a show of walking around the magic spinner toward the gold. A few moments were spared to examine the tumbleweed of threads. Belle was pleased to catch Rumplestiltskin watching her in bemused exasperation. Yet he didn't lose his temper over this. When had this turned into a game, Belle wondered. Nor could she say she didn't enjoy it a little after all the teasing she'd endured. She was determined to score a few points.

A pause in the wheel's motion warned Belle that her companion's patience was waning. "Does it pass inspection?"

"Hmm . . . I think so." Belle waited a few seconds, then set the stool down on Rumplestiltskin's direct left. She left enough room so he could continue to spin without physical interference, but he would not be able to dismiss her at this proximity. And she could still reach and roll up the gold.

He'd been right, she admitted with a small smile as both their hands set to work while they communed in comfortable silence. For all his teasing and deal-making, Belle enjoyed Rumplestiltskin's presence. Isolation, while not always loathsome, left a cold sensation in her bones under these circumstances. She had no family and probably few friends left on the outside, making her solitary state that much more permanent. Rumplestiltskin was not her friend, of course, but she could imagine worse company. He kept her mind alert and quick. Being the enigma he was, he provided something other than her own captivity to occupy her thoughts. As the quiet minutes passed, she let her gaze shift between the gold and its creator. The strands glittered as beautifully as ever, but Rumplestiltskin's features captured her interest with greater force. He must have been a man of sorts, regardless what his skin and magic powers indicated. His behavior did not deviate much from most men; no oddly animalistic noises slipped into his speech—just the infantile giggles. Maybe that was it; Rumplestiltskin was more of an overgrown child than a man. Maybe that was all that separated him from other people.

She couldn't be sure. The creases in his scale-encrusted face deepened, lending him a much older attitude while he stared undisturbed at his wheel. He must have been buried in thought. Reliving years of deals and . . . and what? She knew nothing else about him or his life. Not a shocking fact, considering how long they'd known each other. But Belle felt inexplicably ashamed that she hadn't yet asked. If this arrangement was going to be prolonged by Dathomir's greed, she might as well try to glimpse into this strange man's world. It would help her understand his motives and predict what he might do or say. She needed to feel at ease with someone who intended on continuing his services as her stand-in spinner and share such close quarters with her nearly every day.

After she had finished rolling up the first long strand of gold and exchanged it for a new one, she spoke without turning toward Rumplestiltskin. "May I ask where you're from?"

The imp's head flicked toward her, the wavy tresses bouncing against his face and hiding his eyes. "Why do you need to know?"

"I don't _need_ to know," she rejoined. "I'd just like to."

He knit his brows. "Why?" He rotated a little more. A smirked flickered across his lips. "Planning to ask the king to invade my home? Or do you fancy paying me a visit when this is over?"

"Certainly not the first one." Belle pointed a scowl at him for the unnecessary jest. Then she softened her brow and shrugged. "Is it wrong I want to know a little more about you?"

"Most people might think so."

"You mean no one's ever asked?"

Dark eyes shrunk to slits. "The people I do deals with are not interested in me personally. They're interested in what I can do for them."

Belle risked leaning an inch toward him, also squinting, but with nowhere near as much menace. "Or maybe they're just too afraid to ask. You do like to be intimidating."

Rumplestiltskin paused his spinning long enough to scoff. "What? Me? Perish the thought."

It was no use fighting the urge to giggle. So giggle Belle did, earning a prolonged look from the sorcerer. His lingering grin was pleasant, though it grew uncertain the longer it remained. Belle returned his stare, still smiling, and kept it up even after he withdrew back to the wheel.

When it seemed as though he would continue to refrain from answering, Belle tried another question. "Do you have any family? At home or elsewhere?"

The wheel paused again. No playful quips flew her way. Rumplestiltskin stilled like a statue, frozen in a pensive, gloom pose with his eyes turned downward and mouth sealed shut with words he dared not speak. She'd touched on a sensitive topic, and Belle instantly regretted it.

"I-I'm sorry. Forget I asked. I just . . . there's a chance you will be the last person I'll ever spend time with for the rest of my life. Dathomir has made no promise to release me. So . . . if I'm to know no one else, can't I get to know you?"

Another wordless moment passed. Rumplestiltskin finally acknowledged her with his gaze. "Maybe . . . maybe you want to find out the monster's weaknesses. Huh?"

His tone, while comical, cut her to the quick. Not because Belle believed he thought she was scoping out his weaknesses, but because of his word choice. _Monster. _Rumplestiltskin was many things; Belle could've sat there all day composing a list of appropriate adjectives and appositives as long as both her arms. 'Monster' would not have shown up on that list. She admitted there was something a dash beastly, but not in the truly ugly sense. He was obviously not an ordinary man, and he used his powers to questionable ends. But would a monster have forgone asking for a valuable favor when he could've extracted one, and instead take her dress as payment? Would a monster have brought an extra stool so she would not have to sit on the floor all the time? She did not doubt there was something dark, dangerous, and maybe even evil about him. Could he be all bad, though, when his awkward moments and ridiculous quips brought her laughter after she had lost so much?

"I don't think you're a monster," she said, not waiting to turn the words over in her mind first.

Rumplestiltskin's eyes widened for a fleeting moment. "What you think and what is true may not be the same thing."

Nipping her lip, Belle did not try to retort. She didn't have much to offer to the contrary. Well, there were a few things, but their time together had been too short to convince him that what years and years had already impressed upon him might not be so.

She suddenly had new question. "Could you at least tell me how old you are?"

The imp squinted an eye. "Somewhere in the three hundreds would be my guess. I've sort of lost track."

Belle dropped her jaw. "Wow. You . . . you look good for your age."

He chortled. "I don't age, dearie." Out of nowhere his forefinger tapped her on the nose. "But I appreciate the compliment."

Her face heated up with embarrassment, and from the playful gesture.

Their previous silence resumed for a while. Thunder intensified as morning wore into afternoon. Now and then rain sprinkled in through the window, to which Rumplestiltskin responded by conjuring up an invisible shield over the window. Just as before, the guard came with Belle's meal, never laying eyes on the peculiar man in her company. Rumplestiltskin's vanishing was all the warning she received beforehand. It gave her barely the adequate time to control her nerves and behave normally when the helmeted figure glanced through the window in the door. And, of course, Rumplestiltskin did not reappear in the same place as he disappeared. He couldn't, actually, since Belle took his spot at the wheel and pretended to be taking a breather from her labors. She got up after the guard left to fetch the tray. When she turned back around, Rumplestiltskin still hadn't reappeared. "He's gone," she assured him, foolish as it was to say. He was staying out of sight on purpose. Sighing and shaking her head, she returned to her original seat and, while managing to hold up the blanket around her shoulders, set the tray on her lap and slurped down her soup. It tasted as awful as usual, and not at all substantial, but her stomach growled in appreciation.

Her nose wasn't nearly as appreciative when Rumplestiltskin announced, "You wind these very nicely!" into her left ear, and she snorted the last gulp of soup up the back of her throat. Belle dropped the bowl, coughing and gasping. Her sinuses and windpipe burned. A half-restrained giggle sounded next to her.

"Don't . . . do that!" she cried between hearty coughs.

"Sorry," said Rumplestiltskin, not sounding sorry at all. Yet Belle felt his hand on her back. It rubbed up and down her spine, and then in circles to soothe her heaving torso. The blanket shifted under his caress, making her worry for half a moment. There was nothing to fear; he pulled away as soon as she started breathing normally and returned to his stool.

For that he didn't deserve any share of her bread. That's what Belle wanted to say—to use it as a punishment. Considering that he turned down her offer yesterday, however, it would not have been much of a reprisal. She permitted some time to go by before deciding that it was silly to hold a grudge. The bread crumbled as she broke it in two. She held up one half to Rumplestiltskin's eye. "Hungry today?"

The imp turned to the food. Just like before, he gave a horrified grimace. "Not anymore."

"I told you, it's not that bad! Not even a nibble?"

"Are you trying to poison me?"

Belle rolled her eyes and took a bite out of her half. She struggled not to wince. The texture felt gritty and dry, and the flavor was that of brickdust (even though Belle had never sampled brickdust even as a curious child). The pungent tang was the only notable trait. The bread was otherwise bland.

Observing her strained reaction, Rumplestiltskin's own expression became more pained. "You eat that every day?"

"I don't have much choice, do I?" Belle swallowed down the lump. It threatened to solidify into rock if she didn't get it down to her stomach fast enough.

"Well . . ." Rumplestiltskin craned his head, eyes alight with resurging mischief. "We could always make another deal."

"No."

"It'll save your stomach a world of pain—"

"_No._ I'm fine."

Her insides gurgled in an unusual way. Belle blushed but held her resolve in the face of the imp's I-told-you-so look. "They wouldn't poison me yet. The king wants the gold, after all. How does the saying go? 'Don't kill the golden goose'?"

"Sure, as long as the golden eggs keep coming."

Lightning cast a white glare into the dungeon. Since Rumplestiltskin was closer to the window, his face fell into shadow while the space around them brightened. Thunder followed, cracking the sky apart. Belle shivered inside the blanket, though it still insulated her body heat.

"Right. So, what does that mean for tomorrow? You agreed to spin for today if I gave you my dress. What about later?"

The notion of offering herself again like she had last night—sort of—crossed her mind. She brushed it aside. Desperation didn't have quite as strong a hold on her as before, even if her situation hadn't really improved. But the thought that last night had been an act of clemency niggled in the depths of Belle's brain. Dangerous thought, as was any other that wanted to believe Rumplestiltskin was showing her charity. He might not have been a monster, but he was a self-interested, cunning man by all accounts. The way he had presented himself that first day reminded Belle of politicians who, while not employing the same outer level of theatricality, utilize similar techniques of commiseration and persuasion to gain allies, favors and bargains. Her tutors had prepared her well with the history of her country and the biographers of many famous and respected diplomats and courtiers. It turned morality into a fuzzy blur of conflicting motives and dark deeds carried out for the greater good. Belle had read much on the subject; she had to, since her father had no sons who would be expected to secure their land holdings and noble title. And Belle would never let anyone take her for a fool if she could help it.

Not that she'd been spared that embarrassment by either Rumplestiltskin or Dathomir. Rumplestiltskin was a more difficult case. The king Belle could dislike with perfect ease. This wizard . . . she liked being near him, though his keen remarks could drive her away, and his rude antics could rile her up. But there _had_ been kindness, hadn't there? The stool, the dress, the blanket. Yes, there was no doubt about the blanket. Who else could it have been? And more than that, he mostly treated her with dignity. He'd asked if she'd been ill. He appeared quite bothered knowing what sort of food she ate as part of her imprisonment. Why he cared, that was harder to ascertain. Not knowing couldn't eradicate the fact that they seemed to get along in their own strange way, and Belle rather liked it.

Maybe she was a hopeless fool after all. Maybe her emotions and need for a friend were clouding her judgment. All that may be—she still wanted to give him a chance. So she scooted across her seat an inch closer to him to look into his eyes for his answer. The disproportional irises, luminous even in darkness, stared back. They tried to blank out all feelings by holding still. Much good it did. His facial muscles continued to drop clues. They tensed up, particularly in the forehead and around the eyes.

He barely moved when he inhaled. Or perhaps he'd been holding his breath. "We'll get there when we get there," he muttered.

Belle sighed through her nose. The exhaled air batted his hair like a little tropic breeze. It grazed his eyelids, making them flutter. The electrifying sensation of being so close, albeit without touching, rushed through Belle's body. Her first instinct told her to pull away. She should respect his personal space. The fact he didn't move either, however, egged her on. Nervously she wet her lips.

"Is there nothing about you you'd be willing to tell me?"

The wall in his eyes crumbled away. When he dared to aim them completely at hers, they'd never looked so frightened. Belle silently begged him not to be afraid. She wasn't going to hurt him. How could she?

"I . . . I'm originally from the Frontlands."

She sat up. The motion put a few more inches between them. "Really? So close! But you don't live there now."

Rumplestiltskin shook his head the bare minimum amount.

"I see. You didn't like it there?"

"Too close to the ogres."

Her breath left her all at once. "Of course. You were right up there next to the border." The ogres had harassed the border duchies for many years. Only in the recent decade had the creatures moved southward and directed their focus on the more heavily populated areas. "That must have been terrifying, being that close to the war."

Rumplestiltskin seemed to shrink before her eyes. "Yes . . . it was."

An understated admission, quietly uttered. Belle's hands ached to touch him reassuringly. But they were still occupied with wrapping the gold. She didn't have quite enough bravery to try any other form of contact, so she settled for, "I'm sorry." A very unsatisfactory alternative.

The gloomy mood brought an end to conversation. The pair spent time instead in steady progress. When Rumplestiltskin went through his pile of straw for spinning, Belle fetched more. The immense quantity that surrounded them reminded them to keep up the pace. The walls slowly diminished, and the gold became so much that Belle not only wound it, but took it upon herself to stack it to conserve room. The rain helped fill the silence, though Belle was glad thunder claps no longer intruded.

Rumplestiltskin's hands still drew Belle's notice whenever she came back to her stool after placing more straw at his feet. They were slight hands, graceful in their own way, and hardly ever needing rest even between batches. They seemed to crave motion as much as land beasts crave air; to be still meant to be rendered obselete, dead. Useless. So they worked and worked. No wonder Rumplestiltskin liked to gesture with them. No wonder he liked to be in control of his deals. He was so used to working with his hands that touch and handling had become ingrained in his personality.

_What are you thinking, you silly girl?_ Belle chided herself. She needed to let her mind rest and not waste time drawing far-flung conclusions.

She didn't know how they managed, but the remaining straw had dwindled to a single stack when the clouds parted and the setting sun dumped exquisite golden light into the dungeon. Straw and gold radiated in the sunrays, as did Rumplestiltskin's skin. Belle angled her head for a better look at his face while he was wrapped up in concentration. Was it just the scales doing that, or was he also perspiring? He was too busy to notice, let alone tell her. She kept watching him until she noticed a bead glide down from his temple over his cheekbone. A grin played on her lips. Even with his reptilian skin, he still sweated. Belle put aside the gold she was rolling up and plucked up the bottom of her petticoat. The strain of ripping apart the fabric required turning away from the sorcerer so she wouldn't prod him with her elbows. The cloth still proved a challenge to her unconditioned muscles. She ground her teeth and contorted her face for a good minute. Her arms burned and throbbed with exertion. Finally a satisfying _rip _tore through the air, and the skirt gave way under her tugging.

"What are you doing?" Rumplestiltskin asked, sounding a little disturbed.

Belle finished freeing a very rough square of of cloth from her garment, then turned back around. "I was just going to mop your brow, if that's all right."

Rumplestiltskin glanced at the fabric in her hand, astonished. "You didn't have to rip up your skirt. I could have magicked one up."

"It's all right. I didn't want to disrupt you." Well, it seemed she had, anyway. Belle shooed away embarrassment and, folding the cloth in half, chased down the rogue sweat drop on his cheek. She used the action as an excuse to graze her thumb against his skin. Some parts of his cheek sported raised, scratchy scales, but further down the scales flattened to silky smoothness, like snakeskin. His forehead was the same when she got around to blotting it, too. This subtle inspection brought to her attention how scant his eyebrows were. She hadn't noticed, for he used all of his face to great expressive effect. To find now that he barely had eyebrows to aid him startled and fascinated her all the more. Maybe the fact that his eyes were set deeply in his skull accentuated his expressions, too.

She expected him to throw off her attentions at any moment. It left her all the more surprised when not one but several minutes went by without a word of reprimand. His eyes locked on her. Since she was staring at him just as much, Belle accepted his gaze with a shy, amiable smile. He wasn't leering, and his eyes hardly left her face. He seemed too shocked to look anywhere else. His stillness permitted her to keep roaming his face, even to dab the cloth over his mouth. There she resisted touching his skin. That indeed would've been a step too far.

Her movements slowed when she moved from his chin to his neck. She took longer strokes that went as far as the top of his collar bone, leaving the skin below alone though it was just as exposed by the plunging neckline of the vest and the open shirt. Had his chest been this bare the first time? Maybe. Or maybe he'd been wearing a cravat. With no dragonhide coat in the way, Belle marveled at how much closer she could get to him. The sleeves of his shirt brushed against her arm and felt luxuriantly cool-not like the cold, forbidding shell of the coat's scales. And Rumplestiltskin's scales were not like those of a dragon at all.

Rumplestiltskin cleared his throat. "That's . . . that's enough, thank you."

Belle snapped her hand away. Goodness, she'd let her enthusiasm to be helpful run away from her! Her face started to flush. "Ah! Yes, sorry. I mean, um, you're welcome." She automatically went to tuck the cloth away on her person, but managed to stop. "Umm, would you like this? I know it's filthy now, but . . . if you don't have a handkerchief . . ."

"Yes, yes, that'll do," he said quickly and snatched up the cloth. He stuffed it inside his vest and resumed spinning, not sparing a word or another glance over her.

It appeared she had gone too far. Belle wanted to apologize more, but to do so might spoil any more comfortable intimacy they had achieved today. Her own actions surprised her; somehow she'd overcome her anxieties about touching a man she barely knew. Now that the moment had passed, her shame deepened. _But I didn't really touch him that much_, she argued as consolation. _The rag was in the way. I only touched him enough to know what his skin feels like._

And why did she need to know how it felt?

"All done," announced Rumplestiltskin, interrupting her line of inquiry.

Belle blinked. She looked around to see that all the straw, except for the tiny pile beside the imp, had been spun. "What about that?" she asked with a finger pointed at the pile.

"For you," he said. "Last time you saved some straw for a sleeping place. I take it the floor in here is no more comfortable."

Belle lit up with gratitude. He didn't have to do that, but he actually remembered. True, it'd only been yesterday, but it still was unexpectedly considerate. "Thank you."

"Not at all." He waved his hand, then stood. "I best be off, then."

"Wait!" Her hand caught his wrist. Rumplestiltskin twisted around. His gaze met hers again. For a moment he looked as startled as when she cleared his face of perspiration.

"What about tomorrow?"

Only now did his expression close shut like a clam. "I have other things to attend to, dearie. I'll be back later to discuss a . . . long-term arrangement."

Belle let him go. Giving up the contact sent a chill through her skin. "Very well. Come back as soon as you can."

Rumplestiltskin stepped back, away from her and the spinning wheel, and bowed. "As you wish, milady."

"Belle."

He raised his head to see her but kept his body doubled over. "Sorry?"

"Call me Belle, if you please." She smiled in the hopes some informality would ease the tension.

He straightened and eyed her. His mood turned thoughtful. "We shall see," he said at last. Without his fingers snapping, the magic cloud ascended from the soles of his boots and swallowed him up. He and the cloud disintegrated into nothing.

The last light of the sun warmed Belle's face. Everywhere else she suffered the return of cold solitude. There was nothing to be done but to roll up what remained of the tangled gold strands and wait for Dathomir to check on her.


	5. Chapter 5

It's been a while, so I feel obligated to update at least one story and wish you all a Happy Valentine's Day! I just wish I had a chapter finished and ready to upload that better fit the holiday spirit. This . . . is going to be a bit painful. (I'll probably need to go back and edit this later, so please forgive typos, general errors and bad writing for the time being).

* * *

Belle's hands and arms ached more than she expected by the time she'd finished rolling up all the gold. She'd put extra effort into winding it as fast as she could before Dathomir's return. The coiled threads would be easier to move than haphazard strands, which meant a shorter visit from the king. If sore arms were the price for that, so be it. She sighed gladly watching the last coil fall to the stacked mound on the floor. Her second food tray arrived. The evening meal came just before Dathomir. She'd been timely.

_They_ had been timely, rather. Rumplestiltskin spun more gold in less time than before. How she did not know. Magic probably had something to do with it. Could he bend time to his will? Or did he spin at an inhuman pace that, due to their shared occupation, Belle failed to notice? She'd have to ask him and hope he was willing to part with a trade secret.

Though her hands hurt, they could still grip the wooden soup bowl and pick away at what parts of the bread looked edible. Labor left Belle famished, and without Rumplestiltskin around there would be no complaining voices over the meal. She hated it when people complained about things they couldn't change, or weren't willing to change. Sometimes comfort could be found in griping about misfortunes. Just thinking about hers made Belle feel worse, though. Dismissing the imp's remarks about the food, she downed the soup in a few gulps. She ate what she could of the bread and left it in a corner for her rodent cellmates. She was still standing when a troop of footsteps coming down the hallway to her dungeon door. She ran back to her meager straw bed, laid down the blanket she had around her shoulders, and covered it with the hay. Her calloused soles scraped against stone like sandpaper as she sprinted to the door, close to losing all sensation thanks to layer upon layer of toughened flesh. She tugged at her clothes to straighten them. She gasped. Her dress! She'd forgotten it was gone. That was bad for two reasons.

There was no time to think of a plan or excuse. The door flew open. Dathomir marched through it and headed right for the wheel and the gold. Not even a greeting, and barely an acknowledging glimpse. Good. Belle would not reprimand his rudeness. She didn't need questions she had no safe answer for.

The king's reaction to her horde was much the same as last night's, except his shock wasn't as pronounced. That allowed his greed to shine all the more. He smiled far too warmly, far too affectionately to suit his otherwise staunch, square face. Belle had never seen him smile like that at any person. Had he no family to love? No friends? For a short moment she watched Dathomir and sensed something in him as tragic as it was twisted. For a man to love gold so much wasn't natural. Maybe there was some unhappy part of his past that brought on this attachment.

The impact of that tragedy—the surge of pity she felt—dissolved when Dathomir's eyes found her and was replaced with agitated repulsion. It was a well-practiced pastime of theirs despite their handsome silver-grey color. "Well done again, milady."

Belle nodded and curtsied. "Thank you, your majesty." She looked up to see Dathomir towering above her, making her flinch. It was hard trying not to turn away.

"Your talents have been wasted. I'll be sure to remedy that." His voice was muted thunder inside his broad chest. Belle wanted to flee to her corner of straw and wool for shelter, and not have to face this beast of a man. Being brave, if this was it, wore her out.

Somehow her bravery had not so tired her so with Rumplestiltskin. It should have. Rumplestiltskin wielded magic—a power stronger than any sword, rope or lash. He should've frightened her more than Dathomir, even if he wasn't much bigger than her. Well, if her bravery could withstand the reptilian sorcerer, it should be good enough against the king.

She clenched her hands. "As it pleases your majesty."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," said Dathomir as he came close enough that Belle's chest—her barely covered chest—brushed against his. He bent down until their noses were half an inch away from touching. The smile from earlier lost its gentleness and none of its voraciousness. "Truly I am. You're a sensible woman, whatever else your disadvantages."

Without forewarning, he turned and snapped his fingers at the guards. One, his arms laden with a bundle of cloth, came into the cell. Belle's heart started to pull down to her feet as though a grapple had snagged it. On top of spinning gold, he expected her to mend clothing, too? With what, the gold thread? She had a mind to object when Dathomir took the bundle and opened it to reveal the top piece as a wine-colored peasant's bodice, followed by a simple beige blouse and a brown working skirt underneath.

"I think your gown has suffered enough." The king showed off his teeth, enjoying the joke tucked away in his remark. "Change into these. I will give you tomorrow to rest, then you spin again the day after. My guards will bring you straw for you to spin every other day. Maybe two days apart."

The sinking feeling returned. Rumplestiltskin did say he would come back to negotiate a long-term agreement, but good gods, every other day? "May I ask how long my services will be needed?"

"As of now, indefinitely." Belle expected him to laugh the way he did at her and her father's expense. Instead he sent a shocked jolt through her by hooking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Not a problem, of course."

"No, your majesty. Not a problem." Belle couldn't verify her answer's integrity in that moment. Rumplestiltskin would offer her a means of continuing this task for a while. But the conditions of that arrangement had yet to be settled, and she was not looking forward to it. He might press hard now. With her "skills" proven to be dependable, she was in an even more desperate spot. She would _have_ to comply with his wishes. The imp might still try to extract a promised favor, probably one requiring real sacrifice. Belle, lost in where to turn for hope, closed her eyes and remembered his face from today. The wrinkled smirks, the glittering skin, the murky eyes. The way the corner of his mouth twitched when true emotion fluttered across his features, free from the masking grin he enjoyed showcasing. The way his muscles slackened under her handkerchief as she wiped off the sweat. The awkward motions his hands made taking the cloth from her, and greeting her farewell . . .

He might use his earlier kindnesses to justify ruthlessness later, but maybe—maybe there was a slim chance these gestures meant he was more invested in her welfare than he realized. Wisdom demanded that she assume the former; her heart still clung to the latter.

In a matter of minutes the cell was again empty of gold, guards and king. Belle had accepted the new clothes and pressed them to her chest. They were coarse and warm, a luxury after the weighty burden of her gown, no matter how fine the silk. As she covered her modesty with them, her brain fumbled over any logical explanation of why no one noticed that she was in her underthings. Had she heard Dathomir right? Had he said, "Your gown has suffered enough"? Was he being ironic? Why did he not ask her about her dress, and state of dress? Even gold could not be that distracting. There was no natural reason he wouldn't have noticed. Either he was being an unexpected, uncharacteristic gentleman, or somehow his and his guards' vision had been enchanted into seeing an illusion.

_Rumplestiltskin_. She now had two questions for him when he returned. Belle chuckled at it all and finished changing. How did her life become so bizarre? Maybe that was the price for consorting with scaly, childish wizards.

* * *

It'd been a quiet, boring day of solitude. Belle started hankering for tomorrow when Rumplestiltskin would be back spinning and, she hoped, in a talkative mood. Dathomir left the spinning wheel with her, but without the straw the dungeon was too vacuous. Comfort eluded her for every position she assumed on the floor or against the wall, and even on the mat of straw. She spent most of the day walking around to keep her blood pumping and her spirits up. She also recalled books she'd read. Stories of adventurers and monsters. Historical chronicles of kings and their realms. Encyclopedias on animals on land and sea. Poetic verse that nourished her with its music. Her internal library was stocked enough that she could distract herself from the yawning silence, and the grief-fueled nightmares that threatened to creep in when her guard lowered in sleep. One day she'd be able to think of her father without tearing up. Some day far away.

She had perused only a quarter of that saving store of knowledge and literature when the hairs on her arms stood up, and a cool shudder wracked her body. She turned without thinking on it. There was Rumplestiltskin, mouth strung up in a smirk, hands folded in front of him. The dragonhide coat had returned. He looked more like he had the first day. Some instinct told Belle to take this as a bad sign.

He was dressed for business. The imp spread his hands and bowed like when he initially appeared from nowhere in her cell. Belle had an urge to revert to her state at that time: afraid, uncertain, heartbroken. But that had been before she'd seen him without the coat—when he'd dressed like a bard in an expensive but ordinary shirt and vest. Before he had let her sit close to him and told her how he came from the Frontlands and encountered the ogres that frightened even him.

She raised her eyebrows at him and curtsied with a matching hint of mockery.

"Good day, milady," he said. 'New warbrobe, I see. No quite as stunning as your last article."

"It's more appropriate for a prisoner."

Rumplestiltskin chuckled and stepped toward her. "That may be, but rags do not suit you at all. They could have given you something not so plain and ventilated."

The blouse and skirt had been victims of time and hungry moths. Belle shrugged. "They'd go to ruin like the first dress, anyway."

The wizard conceded with a nod. Belle's memory was at once jarred and she, with unintentional rudeness, cut in as he was about to speak. "I have a question."

Though taken aback, Rumplestiltskin arched his eyebrows with interest. "Yes?"

She relaxed at his demeanor. "Last night, when Dathomir and his men came to visit, they didn't seem to notice that I was . . . underdressed."

"What an unobservant lot!"

"Did you do something?" She fidgeted with her skirt, worried he might think she was being accusatory. "Not that I mind. I'm relieved. But I'd like to know."

"I just made sure they saw what they expected to see." Rumplestiltskin giggled and, hands pressed together, approached Belle, swiveling to face her at an angle. "Can't have them asking questions, now, can we?"

She released a breathy, half-hearted chuckle. "Right." Grateful as she was for the nonetheless vague explanation, they needed to get to the heart of Rumplestiltskin's posturing. If only they could go back to that closer place they'd entered into before. When she stepped toward him, however, he pivoted away without actually retreating. He wouldn't let her look him in the face, in the eyes. Disappointment pinched her, but she remained congenial. "I guess we have to have our talk."

"Ah, yes! What with Dathomir's increasing interest in your 'handiwork', you'll want to secure my services for a while. I doubt you have anything of material worth left on your person."

Indeed, though the question of whether her own person might have some value flitted in the back of Belle's mind. Some dread stirred in the nadir of her stomach. But worth was worth. She wouldn't dismiss it unless she believed her well-being was in danger.

"You must have something in mind," she offered.

A predatory smile slowly crept across his mouth. It was almost as menacing as the first he'd shown her, but something seemed to be . . . missing from it. Or so Belle fancied.

"I have given it much thought. I have, for instance, already considered your stubbornness over unnamed favors. Better we not waste our time by going through that dance again."

Well, _that_ was good to hear. Belle nodded. She'd rather endure the painful process of weighing the cost of a set price than suffer the vulnerable uncertainty of what Rumplestiltskin may ask for in the unforeseeable future.

"I have reason to believe that Dathomir, after some time, will see fit to take your hand in marriage. His gold-lust will make him insensible to reason, and your charm and wit will only spur him on."

"You're kind," Belle said, her voice dry, "but if he marries me, I don't expect him to feel any love for me, as I'm sure I will not love him."

"And you can live with that?" He bent his head to one side, grin still present but losing its luster.

"I was engaged to another man I also didn't care for. An arranged marriage. It's the sort of thing a noblewoman is taught to prepare for."

Rumplestiltskin's gaze moved away from her to the wall directly in front of him. Belle risked drawing near to read his expression. His face betrayed little. Its stiffness gave the impression of an iron chest wrapped in chains to keep in its explosive contents.

She took another risk. "I don't like it, either, but I'm willing to do it if it's necessary. If Dathomir manages not to be a brute and allows me freedom, I can tolerate it. I only wish not to be locked up or belittled. It's not as though everyone is guaranteed True Love."

"True," sighed Rumplestiltskin. As he said it, his features opened up. The wrinkles from his smile softened, and his lips closed a little around his stained teeth. That fleetingly pensive, gentle expression encouraged Belle another step closer. She could now touch his shoulder if she wanted to, or fix the ruffle of his right shirt sleeve—it was partly tucked inside the cuff of the coat. But she let the space linger between them, compressed as it was. The invisible walls surrounding Rumplestiltskin's emotions were formidable, but not insurmountable. It might have been the call of a challenge that lured Belle into looking for gaps or loose stones to pull away. It wasn't just about a challenge, though. She knew what it meant to live in a castle guarded by high walls. If you had no one to share that castle with, it must become a very lonely place.

Her hand floated toward Rumplestiltskin's sleeve. She didn't think about anything more than adjusting the ruffle. But the wizard caught its approach and jerked away. He stepped back. The room and his expression took on a cool, razor-edged tension.

Rumplestiltskin hid his hands behind him and puffed his chest. "So, you'll agree to marry the king. And your happy union will procure you many treasures!"

Pulling her hand back, Belle struggled to restrain any bite in her tone. "Rumplestiltskin, I know you're not interested in treasure of the usual variety. Just tell me what you want, please."

"Of course." His voice dropped to a cutting whisper. Without appearing hasty, he smoothly narrowed the distance in a couple of heartbeats. She felt his breath before she saw his face barely an inch from hers. Everyone of late seemed eager to encroach on her personal space. The air from his mouth and nose teased her skin. Although she thought she'd grown accustomed to such inappropriate closeness, blood heated her cheeks. Her mind unwittingly responded with mortifying scenarios she'd imagined of him asking her for that special kind of favor reserved for the marriage bed. The thoughts sent chills down her abdomen. She feared she might twitch on accident and make him angry with her alleged revulsion of him. It might have been revulsion of a kind, but more of the situation than of him. The wizard, with his breathing and smiling, did not ease her nerves, of course.

With him all but pressed against her, it seemed set that the words she imagined would drop from his lips. Belle lowered her eyes, almost closing them.

"What I want . . . is your first-born child."

Her eyelids snapped open. She whipped her gaze up at him. "_What?"_

"As payment for my services," he said slowly, "until the king takes your hand in marriage and renders those services unneeded, you will give me your first-born."

He had to be joking. Belle searched for any sign of concealed humor. There was nothing except his false grin, which curled nastily as she stared at him.

"No! How can you ask me that? I would never . . . I couldn't . . ."

"What's the matter, milady? You who treat marriage so coolly—why is this any different?"

The condescending hiss in his words provoked a degree of rage Belle had rarely ever felt. It shot through her chest and down her fingers. Before she could even think about controlling herself, she shoved him away with unexpected strength. Tears started to blur his half-stumbling form and the rigid edges of the dungeon.

"How dare you!" Even in anger, Belle could hear the childish whine in her voice—the pathetic sob of a helpless girl. Her rage boiled all the more. "It's not the same! People marry all the time without considering love! You're telling me to give up my flesh and blood, and without giving them any choice!"

"I'm not _telling_ you to do anything," said Rumplestiltskin. The playful mannerisms were gone. They left only a growling creature in its place. What might have passed for a smile in poorer lighting was, to Belle's eyes, the grimace of a gargoyle. "You still have a choice. It's not as though you're sending the child to its death. But if you want to live to be queen, you'll have to pay the price."

The first flames of Belle's fury dwindled under the flood of sobs, tears and hurt. She felt she'd been thrown overboard without warning onto a landless, choppy sea, and with nothing to keep her afloat. "I don't want to live to be a queen! I just want to live! There must be something—"

"There isn't!"

His shout made her jump. A short moment of real fright caught her unawares. It eased away as she watched his face. He was baring his teeth in wolfish fashion. His hands were balled into fists; his head and shoulders thrust forward so he could throw his words at her. It was wrong. All wrong. He was too wound up. Too angry.

Belle couldn't stop the tears from slipping out the corners of her eyes, but she could quell her sobs with controlled breaths. She took a few quick inhales to steady herself. "Why are you asking this of me? Is it some kind of punishment?"

"It's just the price, _dearie_." He spat out the last word.

"You could have asked for this from the beginning. Why didn't you? Am I supposed to believe this has all been some game of yours?"

Rumplestiltskin's vicious grin came back. "Of course it's all a game. I'm an immortal wizard. What else am I going to do with my time?"

"There are plenty of other people, I'm sure, ready to make deals with you. People with far more to offer you. If you'd wanted to make me squirm—if that's what you _enjoy_—you would've done it sooner."

"Oh, but my dear Belle . . ." His smile grew more taut. "A person isn't really desperate until they've had a taste of hope. I gave you hope. That's all it was. Did you think you could sway me with your kindness? Make me your ally? Sorry, dearie. That's not what I do. Now, will you take my offer or not?"

Belle's face tensed with the tears she tried to hold in. Her efforts to stare through those walls of his—fortified with dragon leather and spearing words—were in vain. His glare and his snarl kept her at bay. The eyes and mouth behind them still had a human shape, a human softness, but it was getting harder and harder to see them. She couldn't stand it anymore. It was surrender, even though her words expressed the contrary.

"Leave, Rumplestiltskin. If that's your one and only offer, I don't want your help."

He straightened out of his aggressive stance. Her heart roll over at the subtle flutter of his eyelids, the stubborn grin, the nervous wiggling fingers. It wanted to stop beating as he took another step away. "Suit yourself. Call for me if you change your mind, but don't think my offer will stay open for long. And don't think Dathomir will take kindly to you when he learns you can't spin any more gold for him." The purple cloud of his magic wrapped around him, obscured his figure, then evaporated.

She was on her own again. Truly on her own. The dungeon sat still in its vacancy, Belle and the untouched spinning wheel notwithstanding. It waited with her to see whether the imp was bluffing. Belle did not call for him. She refrained from just thinking his name. His image loitered as a token of the company he's once kept with her, and the strangely tender moments that passed almost unnoticed. She wouldn't let herself think on the cruel being who'd left her to her fate. He'd left so that she would crawl back to him, cast aside her inhibitions and conscience to save herself. How many other women had he subjected to this choice? How many had taken his offer? In spite of his heated words and telltale ticks, he was back in his element. A devilish confidence buoyed him through their exchange, and convinced him to turn his back on her and let her come crying for help. He was sure she'd rationalize her way to agreeing to this deal. Give up her unborn, unknown child so she may live another day and maybe regain some comfort. A horrible choice had been forced into her hands, and one she felt herself becoming tempted to accept.

Desperation clawed at her like beggars demanding spare coins, refusing to let her go even as she paced. To hold out meant to forfeit her life. There would be no mercy from Dathomir. So it was her or the child she'd never know, never raise, never teach, never love. Could she live with giving it up like that? Now, perhaps, yes, because the child was only a thought. An unrealized notion. But once that child came, even if it was Dathomir's, what then? After the trial of pregnancy and the agony of childbirth, to be then robbed of the fruit sounded like a special kind of torture.

Belle thought of her mother and what she must have borne to bring her into this world. Her mother, good and brave and kind, and armed with a loving heart like no other, would never have given her up. She remembered how, when still a child, her mother would come to tuck her into bed, kiss her and tell her that her love was a big as all the oceans put together. Belle would say her love was as big as all the sky, all the way out to the dimmest stars. It wouldn't have mattered how many children her mother might have had after her, had that happened. Belle had been loved because, to her mother, she was precious not because of her accomplishments or character, but by virtue of being her mother's child. Each child was irreplaceable.

She stroked her stomach, empty of the life it would one day hold if she lived long enough. It would be wrong to deny that child a chance at living, but so too would it be to let it live knowing its mother thought her own life more important. The tears surged up. Belle wiped them away and inhaled to stifle any new sobs. The silence of her prison clogged her ears while she sat down and leaned against a wall. A few sniffs and her breaths alone disturbed the air. Then came the footfalls. Weary and dulled to everything, she went to the door and spoke to the guard with her meal.

"I need to send a message to the king," she said.

"Another?" he joked, reminding Belle he was the same guard she spoke to a few days ago. He didn't try to run off first this time.

"Tell his majesty that I cannot spin any more gold."

It was interesting to see the fear that swallowed his eyes. It was her head on the line, not his. But Belle had no energy left to feel fear for herself right now that she didn't mind the display. It comforted her a little.

"Are you sure that's wise? Has it gone away? Maybe it will come back."

"I doubt it. I've lost the power, it seems. Please tell the king as soon as you can. I don't want to keep him waiting."

The guard lingered before sending the tray through the slot. He was careful, took his time. Belle took it without it spilling on the floor first. "Tell the king I am sorry," she added as he walked away.

"Not as sorry as you will be," said the guard with unprecedented concern. Belle managed to smile and nod.

Hours passed as uneventfully as they had before Rumplestiltskin's appearance. No second tray arrived when she expected, though. She had long lost her appetite, but this fact she alarmed her. It must have been evidence that the king had received the guard's message. Her insides bubbled from waiting like this, so she forced herself to walk around again even though her mood wanted her to sulk. She was back on the ground, however, when the recognizable ensemble of boots thumped her way. A sudden desire to make herself presentable got her up to brush off her clothes before Dathomir entered the cell. He should've stormed in as any outraged king would. His gait and mood were measured. Temperate. Belle shivered, but more disturbed at being back into a corner, she came forward and curtsied.

"Explain to me what is wrong," he said, low and even.

"I've lost my gift, your majesty."

"How can you tell? You haven't spun anything all day."

"I can tell when I don't have the power. It . . . comes and goes. I can't say if it will come back. I think not."

"You think not." Dathomir spoke so softly he almost sounded pitying. Belle held in a puff of air out of fear that it would suddenly be knocked out of her.

It went so quiet that the flicker of the torches could be heard. The guards outside breathed without a sound. No one whispered, gestured, snickered. Nothing. The silence began to choke her. Her gaze dropped to the floor from the weight.

"That is unfortunate," said the king. "I'm sure you can't help it."

Belle sighed. Yes and no. "No, I can't, your majesty. I wish I could."

"I have found," he continued, collected as ever, "that sometimes people think they can't do something, but what they are lacking is proper motivation."

She looked up again. "What kind of motivation?"

"The most pressing kind." Dathomir turned and motioned with his fingers. "Take her."

Belle gasped, then went quiet. Numbness took over. She barely felt the grip of the guards on her arms. A tight ball formed in her belly as they dragged her out of the dungeon. She didn't fight them. The ball warned her that she would need all her mettle to endure the next few hours, or days, if she had that much time. She would. Wizard or not, so long as her body stayed in one piece and her lungs could take air, she'd hold on and grit her teeth.


	6. Chapter 6

Just so those readers wondering why it takes so long for me to update - well, there are a few reasons. One: school. Two: other fics. Three: this is a LONG chapter. A lot happens, and I have to comb through it many times for language, pacing and typos. I hope the wait wasn't as agonizing as getting this written. :) Thank you for the lovely reviews! They really do help motivate me.

Warning: there are references to sex and a mildly sexual situation, but nothing graphic. Feedback is much appreciated!

* * *

An occasional draft from the window and the gaps between stones brushed against Belle. Every time she shuddered against the floor, face-down. The straw prickled against the tender bruise on her cheekbone. She would have turned her away to relieve it, but the other side of her face bore a scabbing cut she feared tearing open with the brittle hay. Nor could she turn onto her back. The pain there was still too fresh.

Sleep had been close to impossible. The dreams that came when she managed to drift away shortly sent her back. She'd dreamed of her father almost every night, but they'd gone from terrifying to merely sad. They brought her home to him, in the library or his study. The two of them discussed politics, her most recent literary obsessions, and places he'd traveled to and hoped to take her someday. Often these dreams ended with her father saying goodbye, as if they would see each other again soon. Sometimes Belle cried; sometimes she felt relief. Yes, someday they _would_ be reunited, and by the gods' will under happier circumstances.

Last night's dream was like her earlier ones, only more bizarre and upsetting. She was lost in a labyrinth. It was lit with only feeble flames in black sconces. She took one and wandered the lifeless hallways to find a notable or recognizable detail. For a long time, it seemed, she could only walk and walk, and with every step the light of her lamp dimmed. Then, out of no apparent feat of intelligence, she found a hall lined with doors. She ran to the first she could reach and flung it open. Open sky hung above her, tinged with red along the horizon. Dark forests stretched out below. Her bare feet lingered on the edge of a steep precipice, too sheer and flat to climb down without rope. Crows screeched in the sky and flapped their huge wings. Belle watched them form a circle around another bird: small, white. A dove. Belle called to it with the intention of sending a message to her father. To tell him where she was and to come to her rescue. But the dove was too entangled in the murder of crows to see her or approach where she stood. At last she relented and closed the door.

She tried other doors, and quaked on discovering that they were all dungeons, though of different sizes and variously decorated. A few were furnished with chairs and a sprawling bed with velvet pillows and a fluffy duvet. They were still dungeons. Belle shut those doors, too.

The last door alarmed her and made her deathly curious. Its bronze handle resembled a goblin's head, mouth open in a grimace. Grabbing it by the ear, she pulled the door back. Muted light from a hearth illuminated a grand but dreary room stocked with shelves of random objects. Treasures, she first guessed by the gold twinkle many of them had, until she noted the assortment of peasants' clothes, leather balls, quills, parchment scrolls, and rolls upon rolls of wool. A collection of large and small spinning wheels lined up against the farthest wall. The wall also featured many mirrors. The mirrors and the spinning wheels pulled her in. The fireplace stood to her left and emanated enough heat to stop Belle's shivering. She stepped inside, toe by toe. As soon as she came all the way in, the door slammed. Giving a gasp, she ran back and tried to pull it open again. It had locked her in.

Then came voices. Voices she recognized by degrees. A shaking Belle turned around. The mirrors became animated with figures. She approached them with only half a mind, half a will. The other half was sucked in by a greater force. The first mirror was oval and had a webbed silver frame. Looking through it was like spying through a window filled with fog, but Belle soon made out her father's heavy body being dragged to a guillotine scaffold by a pair of faceless guards. His eyes sat deep in his skull, shadowed. Wore nothing but a grubby tunic and leggings. His feet revealed bloody blisters on the soles as the guards hauled him up the steps to the executioner's block.

Belle had a notion that, if she turned away from the mirror, the event taking place would come to a standstill. She veered her gaze to the right and found a rectangular mirror with a frame carved into entwined branches. In it Gaston was slashing his way through King Dathomir's armies as they invaded the castle. She had not seen him since the siege. It made sense that in all the confusion he took it upon himself to fight against mad odds. Gaston was like that. Nobly intended, but a little too certain of his own skill and strength. With every vibrating clash of metal against metal, Belle quaked and braced herself for the moment he would be a second too slow, or commit a moment's miscalculation. The anticipation made her ill.

The door deserved another try. She looked away from the mirror and moved to go. However, her blouse snagged on something. Her skin tightened. She looked down and saw it had caught on the tip of one of the spindles. Belle tugged at it. The garment wouldn't come free. More tugs drove the spindle deeper into the cloth until it speared through and created a hole. She growled and reached to wrangle the spindle out.

"Don't touch that!" A scaly hand slapped hers away. It was a hard slap that stung more than she imagined the spindle would have hurt. Belle twisted around as far as she could. Rumplestiltskin, adorned in black-red leather that glinted with menace in the firelight, regarded her with a cold glower.

"Didn't you ever hear the story of the girl who pricked her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel?"

She wanted to move away from him, but the spindle arrested her. Her only way to freedom was to remove her blouse, and though she'd been somewhat naked in front of him before, it would have been acutely degrading.

The imp stretched his huge mouth into a crocodile smile. "Where would you go, anyway? Don't you want to watch?"

Against her better sense, her head pivoted back to the mirrors. She witnessed firsthand every stage of Dathomir's attack and the massacre of her father's army. Red swords swung and speckled the grassy forest and village she once roamed at her leisure with fluids and entrails. Her gaze followed the refugees from the battle trudging through the pungent marshes that were her duchy's namesake. The fleeing survivors could not go by the roads now that the king's soldiers had taken control of them. The marshes left them vulnerable to arrow volleys from higher ground. The swampy lands quickly became littered with open-eyed bodies. Men, women, children, animals. Their blood leaked into the green waters and turned them brown.

"Please stop!" Belle's voice cracked with sobbing.

"That's how they lived and died, Lady Belle," whispered Rumplestiltskin. He perched his thin, kneading fingers on her shoulders and spoke next to her ear. "That's how lucky you are to be a noble. You only have to sit in prison for the rest of your life, fed and sheltered. What about them, dearie? Did your father and handsome groom-to-be care about them? Were they not just fodder for the ogres, and then the king's men? Does it make it easier to think on how your own life will be once our deal is through?"

"We have no deal!" Belle didn't care what he'd said about the spindle. She grabbed it and tore the blouse off. How it happened she couldn't explain, but a sharp pain radiated from her thumb to the rest of her hand. It burned, then went numb. She held in a cry when she saw that the spindle had run through the digit, impaling the pad and almost penetrating the nail on the other side. Blood oozed out, dark and thick. Her head swam, as did her stomach. She clamped her hand around the thumb to stop the bleeding. Her legs staggered. She'd been intoxicated with something. Calloused feet fought for balance. Much to her distress she had only the mirrors to keep herself awake and upright. The events she'd seen earlier - her father's execution and Gaston's suicidal attack - had paused while she didn't watch them. Now they moved again. The guards forced her father to his knees. His watering eyes looked up in spite of his head being forced into the guillotine slot. Gaston was taking on three soldiers at once. His doublet had been rent open by too many close nicks, and his swings were growing sluggish. He was tired. Forehead and hair were drenched. From behind him came a fourth soldier, axe raised high. Gaston didn't see him.

Belle dropped her gaze. "Why are you showing me this?" Her tongue started to stiffen, but she forced the question out even as her balance slipped away. She stumbled backward into Rumplestiltskin's chest.

He locked his arms around her, all dragonhide sleeves and silk ruffles, and nudged his nose against the shell of her ear. "I didn't pick these scenes, dearie. _You_ did. I'm just providing the canvas for you to paint them on."

"Take them away," she mumbled. Even as her strength ebbed, she squeezed her injured thumb hard. It hurt only a little.

"Oh, but you're about to miss the best part!" He nodded upward. A heart-shaped mirror, larger than the others, revealed a view of a stately bedroom. Belle saw herself sitting on the bed in a silky white nightgown. The neckline dipped low enough to display her cleavage. Two long slits in the skirt did the same for her thighs. Her skin shimmered healthily in the light of the fire and candles, yet her expression was that of a corpse. Mirror-Belle did not look up when Dathomir entered the picture, robed in burgundy velvet. His large hand cupped mirror-Belle's chin and angled it up. She moved as he wished. Her expression never altered. It didn't alter when he pulled her to her feet, rented off the nightgown with lightning execution, then gently but definitively pushed her back onto the bed without a stitch of clothing to protect her.

"That is how your child will be conceived." The imp snickered. "Is it really worth it? To throw your life away for a child that, in the end, you won't be able to stand because of what it will remind you?"

Whether it was the drug from the spindle or the way Rumplestiltskin held her up, Belle could see all the mirrors at once. So much pain. Suffering. Degradation. Death. There was a standing mirror before her, too. Of her and Rumplestiltskin. She looked about as dead as the other mirror-Belle, whose body was now hidden by a thick, naked Dathomir.

Almost worse, actually. At least that mirror-Belle had clean hair and skin and a cared-for body. The Belle in front of her was a disgusting waif. Draggled locks, tangled from neglect, hung stiffly from her head. Her dirt-smudged face had lost the color and fullness of health. Once rosy lips had cracked and scabbed. Her clothes, what little she had, looked like they'd been thrown into a rubbish heap a few times before being drudged up for her to wear. She had fallen much further than she realized. In that moment all the hate and anger she could contain arose like a monsoon and drowned her. It crashed over her head and swallowed up the light she'd kept locked inside. How rewarding it would be to give away Dathomir's child to this monster behind her, and know that he was powerless to stop it. To rob him of the joy of raising a child - for after that Belle would exercise every method to avoid the king's bed, or be as cold as an ice witch to his advances. He had taken so much from her, and would continue to do so if she let him. Yes; he didn't deserve her consideration. Her mercy. Her forgiveness. He ought to pay. He _would_ pay.

After many seconds of tight breaths, her head slowly cleared. A stab of pain ran up her arm from her thumb. She looked at it. The gushing began to abate, but the thumb throbbed. She removed her fingers for a better look. The stab had gone so deep she couldn't believe it. A terrible injury, and a foolish one. She'd brought it on herself, and in nothing more than a fit of frustration. Shame silenced the raging voice that cried for retribution against the king. Shame and a short-lived self-deprecating smirk.

The images in the mirrors vanished. The walls of the room started shrinking and closing in. Panic sent Belle tearing out of Rumplestiltskin's arms and running for the door. Her feet caught on the carpet, but she stayed up and reached the door. She threw all her strength into wrenching and kicking at it. It still wouldn't give.

"Let me out!" she yelled while turning back to Rumplestiltskin. Behind her was only the room and its strange contents. As the walls got smaller. The mirrors shattered. The spinning wheels splintered and crunched into each other. Other objects tumbled off the shelves and smashed on the floor.

"Let me out, Rumplestiltskin! Please! _Rumplestiltskin!"_ She pounded and pounded until she felt the broken objects pressing into her back, cutting through her blouse and into her skin. Her arm no longer had room to move. She screamed the dark wizard's name a third time.

Coming out of the dream had a disorienting effect. She was of course glad to find the room was not real, nor was her interaction with Rumplestiltskin, or the scene with Dathomir and mirror-Belle. But the rest - well, who could say for certain? If she ever had a chance to see her homeland again, she might find to her dread that the events she envisioned did come to pass that way. But that could wait. There was still the here and now to be dealt with.

Belle blinked away sleep but would not move anything else. Pain assaulted her with all its might now that she could not escape to sleep. Her anger in her dream reemerged, though at only one ounce of its power. It wasn't even directed at Dathomir or herself. Oh, Dathomir had plenty of fault to own to, but she had expected this treatment in response to her alleged recalcitrance. He was a keg reacting to a spark. It was the person who ignited the spark in the first place, and set it so near the keg, who had to answer for it.

Vivid recollections of the dream visited her while she lay alert and still. She relived the final moments of it once more just as Rumplestiltskin appeared, unobserved and sudden as ever. He announced himself before she could see him. "It pains me to see a lady so distressed!"

She would not deign to address him. Managing to move her arm, she pressed her face into it and remained mute.

"Ah ah ah, dearie! Crocodile tears won't help you now. I made my offer and you turned it down. But since you called for me, I presume you have become more willing to consider it."

"I didn't call for you," she said, equally angry and confused.

"No? But you did. I heard you clear as day." His flattened voice revealed his own confusion.

Belle sighed into her arm. Did she project that loudly in her dreams? He better not have been peeking in with his magic, nor at any of time she dreamed and thought. As a matter of privacy, not because she had anything to hide.

"Well? I'm waiting. Unless you plan to pout like a child. In that case . . ."

"Go away, Rumplestiltskin. Just go, _please_." She felt burgeoning tears. Belle didn't care. She had a right to shed a few, and she would not be made ashamed of them.

The imp dared to scoff in offended surprise. "Are you going to pretend that Dathomir won't find out?"

"He already knows."

"Ah_._" He crouched down. She glimpsed up. His leather trousers stretched over his knees and thighs. She looked further up. He wasn't wearing the coat today, but his black scale-composed vest was on display, as was a pair of coverings that ran from his shoulders to his wrists. They each ended in a stiff, claw-shaped strip that curled over his hands. "Then I take it this dour mood is thanks to his threats against you. How ever did he find out?"

She set her head back down. One of her hands clenched around some straw. "I told him."

Rumplestiltskin's breath stopped short. Scowling, Belle forced her head up again. His cruel, playful grin had been swept away. He looked . . . horrified.

"You _what?_ Are you out of your_ mind? _When? When did you tell him?"

"Last night. What does it matter?"

His brows dipped down. He shifted to the side so the sunlight could hit her in the face. She groaned and shut her sore eyes. Before she could drop her head again, the imp's fingers found her chin. They looked each other straight-on.

"Where did you get these?" A gray-green finger traced the gash on her cheek.

"Where do you think?" Belle said.

The thumb of his other hand rubbed the bruise in grazing circles. She resisted wincing at the contact. Rumplestiltskin stared at her as though he couldn't understand what he was seeing. "Did they do anything else?"

While his question settled into her skin with a balm's effect, it also provoked a ruddy tint in her cheeks. She didn't want to flaunt her injuries for pity. But since he was asking, he ought to know what his offer and her refusal had wrought. She tried to sit up. It left her whimpering in spite of her remnants of pride. Belle couldn't have uttered a word if she wanted, so she pointed over her shoulder and diverted a little pain by chewing on her lip.

After a hesitant, uncomprehending stare, the wizard dropped to his knees and crawled behind her. She started to work on the laces of her bodice. Her hands stilled when Rumplestiltskin's palm lightly touched her back. A hiss squeezed out as she arched away from him. Another whimper followed. She ordered her hands to move faster to undo her clothes. She had the last tie loose enough to pull the bodice over her head when the garment vanished. So did her blouse. And her corset. Belle yelped and covered her naked breasts that prickled from the cool air.

"Was that necessary?" Her indignation and discomfort carried her voice over the stinging on her back. "I would've shown you if you'd waited."

No answer came from Rumplestiltskin for a while. There was only his breath, coming out more ragged with each exhale. She shuddered when he came closer and she could feel it on her shoulder. The last thing she wanted right now was for him, or anyone, to touch her.

"He did this?" Rumplestiltskin growled out the rhetorical question. He sounded appalled as well as baffled.

"Not personally. But he was there to watch."

Her mind tried to assemble a picture of what her back must have looked like. The cuts from the whip were probably surrounded by swollen red skin. Still mostly open with only a thin layer of rough scabs creeping in at the edges. The guard assigned to the task had lashed her at least a dozen times. She'd lost count as the agony intensified and it became harder to think straight. Just the sound of the whip singing through the air, and then cracking before another stripe of pain bloomed across her skin, made her flinch. She would always flinch when she heard or thought she heard it, she realized. Her back wasn't the only part of her that had been scarred.

Belle shivered again at the mumbled stream of heated words dribbling out of Rumplestiltskin's mouth. She didn't need to understand to know the emotion behind them. He was _angry_. Anger was in the whistling breaths between his teeth when he stopped talking. She quaked at his response, but she wasn't afraid anymore.

"What was that?" she asked innocently.

"Never you mind."

There was no chance to press him on the issue. A tingling coolness stopped her. It kissed her wounds, starting from the top at the nape of her neck and creeping down her shoulder blades, spine, ribs. When the tingling passed, the pain was gone. Belle straightened. She could move again! Forgetting her near nudity, she looked behind her. Rumplestiltskin's eyes turned up to meet her gaze.

"What did you do?" It was hard to subdue her surprise and gratitude.

The hazel orbs shifted back and forth. They seemed torn between looking away and staying on her face. Rumplestiltskin's mouth searched for words that wouldn't come. He got as far as blurting out a few "I, uh"s and "um"s and making some movement with his hand she couldn't see from her angle. She took a chance. Adjusting one arm to cover both her breasts, she reached back with the other to feel her skin. It was smooth. No scars, either, which she had expected to carry for years.

Even in her relief, she could not forget what the imp did to her yesterday. The way he'd spoken to her, the position he'd cornered her into - she couldn't let herself forget how she'd come to earn those lashes. "Why did you heal me? Because you thought if you did, that would make everything all right? It doesn't, you know. You _left_ me here to my fate. Didn't you want this to happen?"

Rumplestiltskin's nostrils flared. His eyes went so wide Belle could imagine them bursting out of the sockets. "I didn't think you'd be stupid enough to tell the king. You were supposed to call for me, _beg_ me to help you."

"Agree to your horrible deal, you mean."

"Yes!"

Belle scoffed in disgust. "Then you must know I won't. Not even if they lash me to pieces, or cut off my head. And what will you do if that happens? Fix me up again? You think that will make me _like_ you?"

Rumplestiltskin guffawed. "So much for gratitude!"

"_Gratitude_?" She was on the verge of screaming at him, regardless if anyone could hear or not. "You left me to die!"

"I did not! Stop being so _dramatic_!"

She meant to shout something back. Instead she burst out laughing. Unintentionally, of course, but it was hard to fault herself. The way he flung his arms as he said those ironic words brought her close to tears. With still enough sense to maintain some decency, she doubled-over to hide her bosom while her body shook.

"Oh, yes," she eventually gasped. "_I'm_ being the dramatic one here." Belle shook her head and let it hang. She needed air and her wits. It was still only morning and this argument, and her ordeal last night, were driving her to exhaustion.

When she could breath again, she peeked over her shoulder. "May I have my clothes back?"

Rumplestiltskin's ears reared back, making his forehead and hairline recede as well. He ran his eyes over her and faced away all in a single second. Apparently he'd grown oblivious to her state of dress in the middle of their shouting match. His hand came up. A rush of air blanketed Belle. It then closed in and formed fabric, and the chill from the breeze transformed into assuring warmth.

"Thank you," she said. Touching the coarse clothing to be sure, she confronted him in a more generous mood, though he didn't deserve it. All the same, staying bitter would contribute nothing to the situation. It was also difficult to be angry when he - this old imp who'd wreaked havoc and terror on the Realms for hundreds of years - sat with his legs folded and his hands cradled in his lap. The leather trousers and black coverings over his blood-red shirt failed to mask how much he looked like a child who'd been caught in the wrong and was starting to realize just how badly he'd behaved. She wished he'd decide to be either this or the man from yesterday. It wasn't right to go from demanding, threatening and heartless to heartbreaking and beguiling. If he would stop confusing her, she'd be able to judge how she felt about him and work with it.

He still had a forbidding aura, however, which helped Belle attend to the problem at hand. It also distracted her from the impulse to touch one of those lepidote hands and its hardy nails. She probably would have felt this way about a wild lion at rest. Whether or not Rumplestiltskin was as dangerous as a lion, she would mind herself to not get scratched again.

She mimicked him by crossing her legs and resting her hands in the same way. "I suppose you have experience with this kind of deal," she said, collected and quiet. No more shouting or snapping if she could help it. "And I can see why other girls in my position would accept it. But I can't. I won't. I know it would haunt me for the rest of my life. So if you try to push me into it again, and leave me at Dathomir's mercy and expect me to give in later, you'll be even more in the wrong than before. You know now that I won't give you what you want. So why are you still here? Why are you healing me and being much more civil than before?"

The imp wouldn't look at her. He hunched over as much as his leather clothing would allow, and stared only at his hands. Though he didn't face her, the crease between his eyebrows and the soft frown demonstrated his uncharacteristic uncertainty. He probably did not realize how unguarded he was being. He might have still trusted his strange skin and intimidating outfit to uphold his dark sorcerer's facade. Or maybe he found it pointless to maintain it to the same degree. Maybe (so Belle hoped) he knew she had him a little figured out, so he relaxed. A warm buzz came alive in Belle's stomach, which she pressed down. She wanted to believe it; that was the danger. More than anything - more than decent clothes, or an actual bed, or fresh air and freedom - Belle wanted a friend. If Rumplestiltskin hadn't come along, she might have expended her strength charming the guard who brought her food. It wasn't, however, just the loneliness that stoked her yearning. The man himself, who changed personae as often as his stockings, provided a challenge and a comfort she didn't know she wanted until now. And what about him? Yesterday he said he had no intention of being her ally. Today he healed her back without any promise that she would play his game. What did that say about his attitude toward her?

He held off answering for what felt like an hour each minute. Belle kept her peace until he spoke his peace, appreciating the silence.

His response was heralded with a sigh. "It's possible I've been . . . hasty in judging you. I've underestimated your stubbornness. It doesn't happen often, mind you! You're right that there's a certain way these particular deals happen, and you've gone and made a mess of it." He slid his gaze toward her. Out of the corners of his eyes, which made their edge all the more incisive. But Belle felt safe. "You can be sure I won't make that mistake again," he finished.

"I believe you," she said. "So, what do we do now?"

Rumplestiltskin opened his lips to speak, but then stopped. A hand flew up and alighted like an impertinent bird on her cheek. She thought to pull away but didn't when she felt his magic again. His thumb touched the long cut, and it shrank into nothing. With the same hand he healed the bruise on the other cheek. There was a faint purple glow both times. The magic and his skin were cool and gentle. Even so, Belle thought it prudent not to sigh as deeply as her appreciation demanded. Her eyes stayed fixed on his, and his on hers, throughout the process.

"We make another deal," said Rumplestiltskin once he withdrew his hand. He raised a finger when she tried to cut in with her expected objection. "When two people each want something the other has, a deal can always be negotiated."

"And you still want my firstborn?" Belle asked.

"Now more than ever."

Though he spoke calmly, his point-blank tenacity shocked her more than his usual theatrics. She was still in the dark as to why he wanted her child, and now she feared her actions had made the price all the more desirable to him.

Rumplestiltskin suddenly grabbed her hands. "But first thing's first!" Even in tight leathers he was quick to his feet, and he pulled Belle up without trouble. Releasing her hands, he stepped back and wiggled his fingers like they were feeling the air. He eyed her up and down and smiled. "This will never do."

He splayed his hands and ran his gaze over her body again, only more slowly. The purple magical mist returned, seeping up from the ground and coiling around Belle.

"What are you doing?" she called out in the blinding cloud. She got her answer in a moment. The cloud disappeared, and she found the clothes Dathomir had given her very much changed. In fact she was sure they weren't the same clothes at all. The fabric was softer yet more substantial. The loose off-white blouse acquired a pristine shade and hugged her torso more snugly while still being comfortable. It had cap sleeves instead of three-quarter sleeves. The bodice and skirt were both redyed midday blue. She even had low-heeled shoes now, and white thigh-high stockings.

When she sent him a bemused look, Rumplestiltskin shrugged at it. "Blue looks better on you. It brings out your eyes."

"That's very . . . kind, I guess, but don't think because-"

"No, no, no!" The imp waved his hand, exasperated. "I don't want spend day after day looking at you in those pathetic rags. It's depressing."

"Fine." She rolled her eyes. "But that is assuming we can come to an agreement."

"Naturally." Rumplestiltskin drummed his fingertips together. "Tell me your conditions. What would need to happen for you to willing give up your child to me?"

Belle shook her head. "How can I rationalize giving up my child for my own sake?"

"You'd be surprised."

She turned away with a huff. Her eyes ached, compelling her to rub them. "I have no idea."

They both went silent. Several times she watched him lazily pace the dungeon. Her feet followed his lead. But her pacing and her folded hands did not yield any ideas. It was still too difficult letting herself imagine giving away her son or daughter.

"You can specify the conditions of the child's welfare," said Rumplestiltskin. "I can ensure that it will be healthy, cared for, and will have all the needs and comforts you desire."

After mulling over these suggestions, Belle stopped walking and turned to him. "All right. You must guarantee that my child will go to a good home, where he or she will be loved and provided for. It doesn't have to be a wealthy home, but it must be a nurturing one. And safe."

He nodded, and smiled just a little. "Anything else?"

These conditions were all well and good, but she still felt uneasy about it. The element of this arrangement that bothered her most was the act of giving up someone who was her responsibility. The child would someday learn the truth when he grew up. How strong would his resentment be? If he were raised by loving adoptive parents, perhaps not very. But the knowledge that he'd been abandoned in the first place would surely leave a mark. She couldn't allow that. There had to be away to avoid that outcome.

"Would I be allowed to see my child after giving him up?" she asked.

Rumplestiltskin thoughtfully pinched his lower lip between his claws. "You won't be able to _raise_ it, if that's what you mean. But perhaps as a visitor?"

Though her heart felt a sad weight, Belle said, "I could live with that. I want my child to know that I love him. He'll probably come to resent me anyway, but I'm more worried that he'll think I gave him away because I didn't love him enough. That he wasn't _worthy_ of my love."

A nod from the deal-maker gave her more courage. So did the increasing softness in his expression. It left her wondering if his gentle attitude had roots in his past. He must have had a family once. She wanted to speculate more, but with almost nothing to go on speculation became a dangerous occupation. She dropped it and returned her full attention to the conditions.

"I want to visit the child regularly. Once a month?"

"Once every two years."

She gawked at his demand. Then she caught the sardonic twitch in his grin and realized what he was up to. He wanted her to haggle. She closed her mouth and squared her shoulders. "Once every quarter."

"A year."

"Half a year."

Rumplestiltskin squinted one eye and tilted his head. He made a long nasal sound while considering, then said, "Done."

"And I'll be able to speak with the child? Will he be allowed to know I'm his real mother?"

He whined in thought again. ". . . yes, as long as it does not intervene with his overall upbringing. Remember, you're forfeiting your claim on the child. Whoever I select as guardian must consent."

Heavens, now they were bringing in parties that didn't even exist yet. Beyond the child, that is. But she nodded. "That brings up another important point: how involved will _you_ be?"

His eyes widened and his head jerked. "I assumed that after I took the child, you'd want me to stay as far away from you both as possible."

"On the contrary. I'd want you to keep an eye on the child when I'm not around, and protect him if he comes to harm. I know you say you can be sure that he'll go to a good home. But things happen. People make mistakes, or they go wrong because of circumstance. Your chosen guardian may end up not being up to snuff or have problems. I know very well that life is hard, and I can't protect my child from everything, but I'm leaving him in someone else's care. I have to do _all_ that I can for his well-being."

Rumplestiltskin put his hands on his hips. "I have _other_ things to do, you know. Why should I waste my valuable time playing nursemaid to one child who means nothing to me?"

"_You_ are the one asking for the child," Belle countered with rising sharpness. "And whether you think so or not, that places responsibility on you. It takes two to deal, Rumplestiltskin, and if anything goes wrong, I won't be the only one to blame."

The imp laughed in sudden understanding. "Of course! This is all about covering _you_. I should've guessed. No one invested in their child's safety would make me responsible for it."

"Don't even try that. It's _because_ I care about my child that I want you to look out for him. And even more so if it's a girl! Will you agree to this or not?"

With a snicker he walked away a few steps. He soon turned back again. "You're wrong, dearie, about this being my responsibility, too. I don't owe you or that child anything once I've placed it in somebody else's arms. But . . . I will agree. I'd like to know how an offspring of _yours _turns out."

It was better not to think on what he meant by that. She preferred just to be glad that he agreed in spite of his objections.

When he asked, a bit tartly, if she had any more conditions, she had a deep-seated feeling that there was something else. She listed off what had already been covered. The last item, Rumplestiltskin's distant guardianship, had been laid out in vague terms. She did not know how to make them more specific, nor how to assure herself that Rumplestiltskin would uphold the condition as she wished. All this bargaining would take her only so far. There had to be more in it. If only there was a way to inspire genuine interest on his end. As he said himself, outside the deal, the child had no value to him. It was still impossible to guess what he was really getting out of this, but she trusted him. And though it may have been wiser to keep him out of it, Belle felt a strange kind of ease imagining a powerful sorcerer watching over the babe she could not. He might try to use the child for his own ends in the future, but he would allow her to interact with her little one and educate him on how to deal with the imp. That would be a very interesting development to observe.

But she did need one more thing. One more protective clause. She went to the only obvious topic that had been left untouched. Dathomir's reaction to her giving away their firstborn was not hard to project. Regardless his bizarre love of gold, the king must have wanted an heir to continue his legacy. He might have entertained some bloodline pride that would curdle at the intrusion of a little giggling wizard coming to claim his reward. There would be conflict, if not bloodshed. She couldn't let that happen.

An idea sprung from the swamp of her ponderings like a young bullfrog. It was a half-suggestion. Yet it stuck with sappy resilience, and the longer it lingered the more Belle saw it was the only answer. The notion rocked her and stole her breath, even making her involuntarily put her hand over her mouth. She dropped it quickly, but not quickly enough. Rumpelstiltskin saw the gesture and watched her. He could read her, she surmised. Her face reddened, her chest contracted with faster breaths. She stumbled from distraction and an uprooted stone while walking away from him. She hoped with every fierce fiber she had that he wasn't peeking into her thoughts.

After another moment of composing herself, she asked, "Does Dathomir have to be the father?"

Rumplestiltskin pushed up his sparse brows. They dropped back down and shaded his eyes. "Why shouldn't he be?"

"Well, I can just imagine how he'll act when the baby is born and you come strolling in to lay hands on the heir apparent."

"Maybe he won't care if it's a girl."

"I'd rather not risk it." If Rumplestiltskin could take off with Dathomir's offshoot (neverminding it would also be hers), Belle would not pretend it wouldn't bring her a little satisfaction. But the king's wounded ego was an insignificant grain to the larger concern of what Dathomir might do to reclaim the child. And what Rumplestiltskin might do with a child of royal lineage.

"Very well. Choose your partner where you may. Can't say I blame you for shirking fidelity." His sing-song lilt still pricked her with its veiled chastisement. She was sure he did hold her somewhat accountable for her proclaimed adultery. She was actually glad for the response. It meant he hadn't considered that she might find a suitable partner _before_ the marriage.

"Good. Then I've made my decision." Her breath fluttered between sentences. Lungs and heart suddenly slipped out of her control. She tensed her arms, legs, back and shoulders, and much of everything else in between. Still, the more involuntary parts of her flaunted their rebellion. Even her hands started trembling. She locked them behind her.

"Oh, goodie! I hoped we'd be done before I aged another century." Rumplestiltskin smiled widely and joined his hands in front of him. "Do tell, milady."

He wasn't going to be so outwardly cheery in a moment. Then again, he might be _genuinely_ cheery. Belle gulped some air. "This is my final condition. I will agree to give you my child on the day he or she is born, if you submit to the terms we discussed, as well as this." She swallowed again. "That you f-f- . . . that you _father_ the child."

It took some extra nerve that lived and died in that one moment, that one breath used to utter the phrase. Paralysis let her continue aiming her gaze at Rumplestiltskin, as much as it pained her to view the screaming shock bleeding into his face. It was worse when he broke into a laugh that sounded like someone was choking him. She would've preferred swagger right now. Arrogance would have let her merely blush with shame and irritation. His stupefaction frightened her. What must think of her?

He blinked twice. "_Why_?"

She tried to shake away her tremors. "Why not?"

"That's not an answer!" He suddenly appeared before her, either by running inhumanly fast or teleporting. He grabbed her just below the shoulders. "Tell me! For the child? Is that it?"

"Yes!" That got him to let go. She stepped back. "A child needs his parents. And since you'll keep close by him, anyway . . ."

Rumplestiltskin spoke through a sneering smile. "You'd burden him with a monster for a father? It's not bad enough you're trading him away to save yourself?"

"You can be cruel," Belle snapped back. "You twist words and hearts, but at least you'll be _there__._ Watching over him, if nothing else, which Dathomir won't be able to do. It's not a sunny prospect, but you brought this on! You and Dathomir. It's going to be one of you. My choices are limited."

"At least he's a man!"

She held her tongue and listened to Rumplestiltskin's labored breathing. He was a dog that had barked its lungs out, and was fighting to retain its threatening appearance when it had even less strength to bite. Sweat drops beaded his forehead. She remembered the off-the-skirt handkerchief she'd given him and wondered if he still had it. Keeping her eye on his brow, Belle came forward and rested her palms on his shoulders. His muscles stiffened. He still breathed loudly through teeth and nostrils.

"If you think I should be ashamed of bearing your child, you're wrong. No more than bearing Dathomir's. You may not be a man, exactly, but you're built about the same as one, yes? Aside from your magic, your age and your skin, there's not much else that makes you different." She performed a very cursory examination of him with just her eyes. He unwound as she did, as she'd hoped. His exhales and inhales quieted with each alteration, and when she returned to his face his jaw had slackened, and his eyes had gained a muddled, watery sheen. "And just so you know, it wouldn't matter if the child came out looking like you. All the more reason to watch out for him, or her." She grinned from picturing a little girl with Rumplestiltskin's reptilian complexion and gaping eyes. The image made her skin lightly shiver, yet it had an endearing quality, too. She only feared that it would inhibit the business of finding suitable surrogate parents.

His expression came down from stunned fury to sad disbelief. Belle had a mind to slap away some of it. This could not have been the first time someone made an offer like this. It _couldn't_ have been. The chance it might be awoke an ache in her chest.

The imp did eventually recover. He blinked some more and arched an eyebrow. "I hope you understand what this means."

"What?"

He chuckled. "I mean, I hope you understand what baby-making entails."

"Of course I do." Belle hoped the put-off tone masked her awkward shudder. "I was engaged, remember?"

"That's right." His smile returned at last. Hard to say how much she missed it when it taunted her so. "Did you manage to gain some useful experience?"

She flexed her still hidden hands. "No, not quite. I did read up on the subject a bit, but that's it."

Again she expected a patronizing smirk or headshake. The corner of his mouth did jump up into a surprised grin. It sank back down before he set his mouth closed, neither smiling nor frowning. Shyness fell on Belle like a curtain. She looked at the floor. By chance her gaze landed on Rumplestiltskin's right hand. Its thumb rubbed repeatedly against his index finger, just as it had a few times before. Must have been a tick.

"When did you want to . . . do the deed?" he asked.

She forced her jaw loose before meeting his eyes. "As soon as possible seems best."

Rumplestiltskin drew up the hand she'd been watching. He held it to his chest, and relinquished the unconscious rubbing to point downward. "You mean _now_?"

"Now? Oh, no!" She looked past him to the slim window. Sunlight filled it and threw a rectangular sliver on the floor. Dust specks danced in the beam. "It's still daylight."

"Oh, I see!" Rumplestiltskin giggled and hopped back. "Don't want to see the monster in all his terrible glory when there's enough light to see by!"

"It's not that." Her face warmed and tingled again. She wished she could move beyond blushing at every mention of that particular form of intimacy. "It's just . . . I didn't think people did that during the day!"

"Another time, then?" He rotated his hand and unfurled it. The gesture was meant to disguise his discomfort, she guessed from experience, but she also fancied that there was a gesture of permission coded in it, too. He unfolded his fingers toward her, rather than upward for the sake of flair. As if he were giving her an opening. If she wasn't more sensible, she would have inferred that he was trying to be courteous, not just vexing.

"Tonight," she found herself blurting out. "I'll let the king know I can do what he wishes. We'll seal our deal after sunset. Will that do?"

"Agreed." He curled his hand shut. "You better be sure, dearie."

"I am. And I told you to call me Belle."

He lowered both his arms. Belle saw the thumb nudge against his pointer finger again. Just once. It told her enough. "We'll see after tonight." The purple smoke came again, and he left again.

She almost forgot that she was supposed to be suffering from her lashes when the first food tray came. It clicked in enough time to let her drop onto the straw and recreate her pained pose. It wasn't easy to manage pretending to be in searing agony while telling the guard she was ready to be compliant. She pleaded through hisses and grunts to let the king give her the day to recover, and she would returning to spinning tomorrow. The guard left and did not come back, nor did anyone else. As Belle expected, Dathomir did not visit her cell this time. He would not lavish her with more attention than she deserved. Not unless there was gold to lavish on as well.

Another day could have been wasted in inactive waiting, but Belle's mind was afire with what had been said and what was to occur. A thunder cloud of fears rained on her like a summer hurricane. She considered how Dathomir would react to her arrangement from all ends, starting with her deception with the spun gold and ending with her final damning act with the imp that produced an illegitimate babe. She could envision dozens of ugly scenarios that resulted in her death, her imprisonment or her banishment. She allowed a smidgen of hope for the chance that Dathomir might show understanding and level-headed conduct, and let her continue her life as his wife. Such a fanciful hope, though, and she lived in a time and a world where placing too much faith in such hopes could kill a person with disappointment.

At least she knew where she stood with Rumplestiltskin, for the most part. With their deal laid out in meticulous detail, she could sketch an outline of her future beyond Dathomir. Belle frankly couldn't care less if the king would let her visit her child. She would take on any obstacle that tried to stop her. And if she was thwarted, there was still the promise of a happy home and Rumplestiltskin's attentive presence. Well, so she requested. The imp was just as renowned for keeping his word as he was for bending the terms of an agreement to suit him. She checked her wording over again and could find nothing wanting. Maybe she should have specified how old the child would have to be before Rumplestiltskin retired from his duty, and clarified what "protecting" and "watching over" meant to her.

Yes, there was too much to think about. She could not avoid wondering about tonight, though. Her readings on married love - the marriage bed, that is - lent her a basic understanding of the mechanics. The first time would bring pain because of the ruptured hymen; after that things would be far more pleasant. She knew what went where, and what felt good for each of the sexes, although the women's section went vague at points. After ingesting a pamphlet on the subject, she inspected some romances for further guidance. The florid descriptions of multiple orgasms and trembling, throbbing body parts left her little more enlightened than before, if not just as confused. Remembering that particular literature made her smile; thinking on applying it to tonight's encounter wiped it away. It would not be like any erotic kidnapping or fortuitous encounter in an alcove those authors described. It would be real, grim and inescapable. In reading, Belle had the power to stop and set it aside for a while to take it in. There would be none of that here. And even worse, foolish as it was to admit, it would be a chore with no passion. Belle was hard-pressed to presume there was no _affection_ in whatever she and Rumplestiltskin had. She liked him enough to put her hands on his clothed shoulders or chest. His skin intrigued her. His scent left her dizzy. She could never say, however, that she felt lust for him. The idea was still new to her. She understood the calmer forms of attraction, and what sort of men were considered handsome and worthy of desire. She'd even had her share of crushes. Mostly on tutors who spoke well and knew so much that boys her age frequently failed in holding her interest.

In a way, this was what her life was destined to be. She revolted at that idea after everything her mother taught her about deciding her own fate. Fate did depend on choice; it also stretched much further than any one person could picture. Maybe she had been fated to meet Rumplestiltskin. What about other things, though? Had it been her fate to lose her father? To be a king's milk cow for gold? A sorcerer's victim? But she could remember every decision she'd made that brought her here: her initial refusal, her offer of her mother's ring, her behavior toward Rumplestiltskin at every turn, for good and bad. And now she was here, ready to face another choice. It was more than many women of her station could say. Just a month ago she would have been married with minimal willingness to a respectable, predictable man of status who would impregnate and leave her to whatever devices she had for her entertainment. She was now about to bed a strange, frightening, aggravating, fascinating creature who could never bore her. She was also being threatened with marriage to a brutal despot. "Better" did not fit the scene in any way. It left her a wretch. And she was afraid of what tonight might bring - how it would change her. For it would alter her, no question. But as much as Belle dreamed of home and good things lost, an odd peace settled in her gut. Not happiness. Not security. She wouldn't be an innocent anymore, either. She understood all this, and still the sensation did not leave. Sometimes her fear and grief drowned it out, but it never abandoned her. It told her that she _would_ survive this, whatever the king might say or do. It would have been nice to recall when this feeling first entered her and nestled inside like a helpful parasite.

Orange evening light pulled away like the tide and left blue-grey dusk in its wake. A warning itch teased her skin. Belle sucked in a breath and sat up to see the magic smoke dissolve at the other end of the dungeon. Rumplestiltskin, still covered in black dragonhide, emerged from it. She jumped up and faced him. Her ribs squeezed around her heart, and her heart punched back. "Good evening," she said.

"No need to be so formal," said the wizard. "But I think it _will_ be a good evening."

She sighed. "If you say so."

He came to her and left less than an inch between them. She could not see him as clearly, but the darkness added shadows to his already harrowing face. On the other hand, it also smoothed out his skin's bumpy texture, and the stained teeth were less noticeable. She liked how the fading light fell on the outer rim of his soft hair. Too bad his hair would be the only soft part about him.

"You're the one who asked for this," he whispered. "Once we make the deal, there's no backing out of it. The other conditions will still hold if you change your mind about this."

How strange that he wasn't forcing himself on her already. She was willing (in the most technical sense), and he apparently did not have this opportunity as often as others. The gruff edge in his voice could hide only so much of his considerate intent.

"I understand." She tightened up to fight a barrage of shivers. "Just please be patient. This is all new to me."

Rumplestiltskin surprised her with his fingers under her chin, barely touching. His eyes - what she could see of them - were filling with a familiar intensity. She'd seen it when he was at the wheel. Not while spinning; it happened as she mopped the sweat from his head and neck. There was still a residue of incredulity. She was too nervous to guess what his other feelings were. Concentration wavered as he ran his nails and fingertips up her jaw. The feathery contact jolted her. It was all she could do to hold still and let him rest his hand on her cheek. Nothing else of their bodies touched. Not until he leaned down and kissed her.

She hadn't expected it until he looked at her mouth and started to move. Maybe from instinct, or maybe thanks to the pamphlet and romance novels, she leaned toward him, too. They met with a soft bump, making Belle flush, but neither of them minded. The kiss was closed, surface-deep, chaste by most standards. It sent a buzzing warmth through her head, neck and chest. Even her fingertips started to tingle. She liked the stillness of it, which was opposite to everything she would have to do later. But this was _nice_ and gentle and fresh to her. She'd expected the imp's kiss to be as numbing as Gaston's. After they were betrothed, Gaston had asked permission to kiss her, which she granted out of curiosity. It had left her with little hope for an enjoyable consummation of their marriage afterward. His mouth on hers elicited no sparks, no excited sensations. It just felt _strange_. But Gaston had gone directly to kissing her with an open mouth. No transition from never being kissed to being assaulted by lips and tongue and teeth. How did anyone enjoy that?

This kiss, relatively innocent, did more to please and excite than any impassioned overture. She was afraid that even touching Rumplestiltskin elsewhere would interrupt it. It must have been boring to him, though, so she acquiesced when he pulled away, albeit slowly.

Belle kept her eyes closed as his other hand mirrored its twin on her other cheek. When she felt him cupping her face, she had a sense of being a little trapped. Her eyes opened. He was surveying her face with a nervous yet pressing look. Her pink cheeks and droopy eyelids must have told him enough. He kissed her again with a little more enthusiasm. He moved his lips against hers as though trying to pry them open. She was fine with the sucking and nipping until she opened some more for him and he pressed his tongue inside. Sudden memories of Gaston grabbing her face and holding her against a wall filled her mind. They ignited an explosion of panic. No, no! She didn't want this. Couldn't they go back to before?

She should have stopped then and there. Instead she dismissed her reluctance to get this over with. She was breathless figuring out how to keep up with his deep kissing and enjoy his intrusive tongue and clacking teeth. The happy warmth they'd shared was gone. This was nothing but yawning caverns and their blind, senseless occupants pushing against each other. She gasped gratefully when he let her go but cringed when he started kissing his way down her neck. Each kiss set off a sharp burst that her inexperienced body couldn't register as pleasurable. It was an attack on her senses. Worse still, her imagination decided to torment her with scenarios of Dathomir and Gaston doing the same thing. Taking pleasure from her body, ignorant of her distress. Why did this feel so awful? Why was she even thinking about them? The answer was a knife to the windpipe: she was their whore. Gaston might have been dead, or at least beyond contact, but she'd been promised to him for exactly this purpose. Now she gave herself to Rumplestiltskin to bear his child, and Dathomir would later take her, too. The same man who'd order her lashing a day ago and killed her father less than a week ago. All men she didn't want. All men who didn't really care for her. Her body and what it could offer was all the worth she possessed.

The poisonous thoughts came so fast and so forcefully Belle couldn't use reason to assuage them. Her body shook and she couldn't stop it. Not even after Rumplestiltskin stopped kissing her on the collarbone and asked what was wrong.

"I'm sorry," she said, wiping her bleary eyes. "I . . . I didn't think this would be so difficult."

Rumplestiltskin gave a breathy sigh. "Ah. Well, what else can you expect with someone like me?" He seemed to be talking to himself more than to her.

"It's not you." She took his hands. He'd moved back an inch and the space soothed her nerves a degree. She still trembled. "I told you, I've never done this before. And . . . I can't stop thinking about how I'm going to have to do it again for Dathomir." Her voice splintered into a sob. Tears were ready to come down from the rims of her eyelids.

Grasping her hands in turn, Rumplestiltskin brought them up. Slowly and firmly he rubbed circles into her palms. His long nails dug a little into the skin. She still found it comforting. "It's up to you. You have to decide."

This was for her child, she reminded herself. For the child's security. As incentive for Rumplestiltskin's protection. A child needs its parents. So Belle nodded and closed the gap. Rumplestiltskin let her hands free and ghosted his fingers up her arms and around her shoulders. Contrary to what she hoped, he went to her neck again, bestowing it with slow, succulent kisses. Now and then his lips or tongue pressed in the right spot; the pleasure only made it worse. The pleasure felt wrong this way. She should not enjoy something that left her shaking and ill at the same time. When he trailed his way back up to her jaw, she felt his mouth meet one of the tears that had dripped down her face. He stopped and regarded her again. His disturbed scowl shamed her.

"Just keep going," she said in a guttural tone. For once it was impossible to look him in the eye. She stared at his black vest and arm-coverings. Thick and tough. She envied them.

Rumplestiltksin went still except to turn his head to the side. His eyes flitted around. Belle held her breath for his verdict. To put an end to this farce, or to skip the pleasantries and take her against the wall.

He pointed to the straw clump. "Lie down."

Her stomach flopped, but she obeyed. She walked over and reclined on her back and, not knowing what to do with them, folded her hands over her stomach. Rumplestiltskin joined her. He lay on his side so he could lean over her a little. His hand gingerly pried hers apart and splayed itself across her abdomen. There was still a bodice, a blouse, a corset and a chemise between them, but the imp made no motion to remove them. He simply stroked her there. After a while her quakes subsided. She watched his hand. There was a timid thrill in the mismatch of his claws and the dragonhide sleeve against the blue cloth.

Being touched like this, no matter how tenderly, kept Belle's heart rate up and her breath rapid. She was no ignorant of his gaze drifting to her bosom as it rose and dropped. His eyes also caressed her neck and face. The unguarded attention - so new in its boldness - rekindled some of that nonthreatening warmth. She didn't quite mind so much that she was blushing madly, considering the situation.

Once she was otherwise calm, Rumplestiltskin slid his stroking hand over her waist and urged her to roll toward him. She obeyed again. Her nerves sparked as he pulled her close enough that their chests and knees touched.

"I didn't mind the kissing," she said quickly. "At the start. Just with our lips. That was . . . it was nice. Maybe if we . . ."

The little twitch of his head and the way he blinked and swallowed impressed on her that he hadn't wanted to do more than hold her for a time, now that they could be this close without driving her to tears. But he followed her suggestion. His nose brushed hers before their lips met. The effect was immediate. Her body relaxed to the point of melting. Her courage renewed, she looped her arm around his shoulder to hold him to her. It was ridiculous that this was the best she could do right now. If Rumplestiltskin minded, though, he didn't show it. His other arm wormed under her and pressed against her upper back. Before long his thumb was rubbing her shoulder blade and sending tickling sparks through her skin. Her unoccupied hand, nearly squished between them and the straw underneath, found a way into his hair and clung to his scalp. His smell surrounded her. The brininess of it became more potent, and with his leather clothing he smelled like an old library at the seaside, musty and forgotten but imbued with the invigorating presence of the ocean.

She started to worry when he pulled away and came back with a more open kiss, but it was only to seize more of her lips and tease them. Her mouth gradually accommodated him. They took turns sucking on each other's bottom lip. It introduced a new pleasing experience for Belle. With Gaston, lips seemed only good for rubbing together and anchoring mouths in place while tongues poked and prodded about. She'd never understood how nipping someone's lip or having her lip nibbled on could be arousing. It made her smile and almost giggle when she realized she liked it. Both of them opened their eyes when her lips accidentally withdrew because of the smile. Rumplestiltskin smiled back, and her belly fluttered.

The hand on her shoulder navigated into the sea of her hair, carefully scraping his nails against the nape of her neck. She shivered briefly, and not out of terror. They started sipping kisses. It tired Belle's lips more quickly than just pressing or sucking, but she had no inclination to stop. Her fingers delighted in the plated texture of the dragonhide and the downy feel of his hair, as his savored her tresses and the fine, durable material of her dress. There was no means of judging how much time passed. Eternity seemed a possible length of time to keep kissing and touching like this. But her lungs' and lips' limitations eventually persuaded Belle to rest, and she pulled back to breathe. Rumplestiltskin gasped to and stared with round eyes. Her heart still pounded away, murmuring a promise of all else she could learn from him once she got over her fears. The thrumming of his heart through his vest said the same to her.

Tonight, sadly, she did not want anything more. One milestone had been reached; to labor for the next six or seven would be too much. Breaking out of this embrace felt like a crime, and doing so to divest their clothes, even if they resumed this position, seemed a sacrilege. But there was the child to consider. The child had to come first. As they both caught their breath, Belle touched Rumplestiltskin's cheek. Its coarseness helped stir her from a kiss-drunk stupor.

"Thank you. I really liked that. I don't know if I'd enjoy the rest nearly as much, but . . . but I can still try."

Rumplestiltskin inhaled, as though to speak. After a second of holding it and pouring his eyes over her face, however, he released it through his nose. Belle giggled, close-mouthed, from his breath washing over her. The corner of the wizard's mouth quirked. His eyes didn't laugh, though. They were so full of things that would take her many more days, if not weeks or months, to separate out. If they could seal this deal, then she'd have those days to do so. Her chest brimmed with yearning. She nudged toward him and touched his nose with hers. In the same moment Rumplestiltskin's hand left her waist and his fingertips dragged up her cheek to her temple. When as their noses met, the wizard's lids flickered and his fingers paused. She had a feeling he wanted to kiss her again. He ought to. It might have given her the nerve to take things further.

"_Belle_ . . ."

The name came in a quick puff of air, but lingered for so much longer. She tingled all over from it. Her lips parted to say something back.

Then his fingertips rested on her temple. "Good night, Belle."

She tried to ask him what he meant. A swallowing sleepiness thwarted her. Try as she might, she could not keep her eyes open. Her mind was pulled to some far off realm of unconsciousness. It happened too quickly to fight it.


	7. Chapter 7

Yes, I'm finally getting back to this. And hopefully I'm at least halfway through the story, if not further. Thank you again, lovely reviewers. Enjoy!

* * *

It was daylight again when Belle woke up. Her dreams were a swirl of things she nearly believed were real, whereas the events of night seemed too strange to be anything but a dream. The sun helped clear her head, though, and distinguish between the real and the imagined. As memories of the night swept in, she touched her mouth, then the rest of herself, and found everything relatively unchanged.

There was that infernal creaking again. It started up after Belle woke. She looked up at Rumplestiltskin hunching over the spinning wheel while gold thread trickled from the spool. Another swarm of memories rushed in. Belle flushed, but her embarrassment turned to annoyance in recollection of her last memory. She assessed her body again. Would she know how it felt to be taken if she wasn't conscious for the event? Nothing felt sore (except her back from the stone floor, even with cushioning from the straw and blanket), and nothing felt different. Maybe her mouth was a bit chapped. She was tempted to inspect her undergarments for telltale blood. She resisted doing so in front of the imp. No, she'd know if anything happened. She'd have to. Women had instincts about these things, right? Unless - unless he covered it up afterward with magic. The notion sent an angry heatwave through her.

Belle stomped to her feet, then marched over to her companion. "What did you do?"

"Good morning to you, too, dearie," said Rumplestiltskin, not turning around.

"What happened last night?" She wanted to explode at him. If he'd taken her while she slept, he deserved her wrath. But if he hadn't . . . Belle calmed a little and sat on the second stool, fully facing Rumplestiltskin. "Why did you put me to sleep? I would've been willing. Why couldn't you be patient?"

The imp giggled but still didn't look. "It's not a matter of patience, milady. I'm quite patient when I want to be. It just seemed a good idea to not rush into things."

Belle pulled away from him and breathed deeply. Then he hadn't taken her. He simply put a stop to things before they went any further. "But why?"

"You were a nervous mess!" he said with a waving hand. "You say you were willing. I've met prisoners more willing to go to the executioner's block!" He tittered.

"You can hardly blame me." Feeling her nervousness return, Belle worked on unknotting some of the tangles in her hair. "What about our deal?"

"What about it?" Rumplestiltskin finally gave the wheel and straw a rest and turned to her. An irritated crease formed across his forehead. She could tell he didn't want to discuss this. What lunacy. Of course they had to talk about it! Did he expect them to leave things like this?

"Has it been properly struck? We didn't consummate it. I thought . . ."

"It's been consummated enough." The imp spoke a little more quietly, and a little more hurriedly. "I don't care who the father is, if that's what you're worried about. The other conditions still hold."

It was hard to believe. Rumplestiltskin seemed to be a man all about technicalities. He could've used their failed attempt at coupling last night to hold out on his promises for the child. Belle wanted to pry out the reason. Good sense managed to take the reins this time.

"I . . . thank you."

Another hand-flutter. "No matter."

For a while Belle could not think of anything to say. Rumplestiltskin spun in peace with her wordless next to him. Then she remembered their previous days together and took up the spot by the spindle to wind the gold. They rarely looked at each other directly, and never at the same time. Belle wasn't sure if it was paranoia, naive hope or real intuition that made her sense he was watching her. She couldn't help being otherwise sharply mindful of his presence and actions, including when he reached the end of his straw supply. They needed the silence for now, so Belle fetched more straw without being asked. Neither of them commented on it. There was instead a short pause in their movements when she lingered beside him after putting down the armful of straw, and he undoubtedly noticed her delay. He risked only the most fleeting glimpse in her direction. Not enough to let her read his eyes or feel all that acknowledged and appreciated. Belle started to tense with frustration. She made herself wait it out until her first meal was delivered. She took a break from coiling the gold to eat. She did not offer anything to Rumplestiltskin. He continued making a point of not looking at her.

After she finished her food and set the tray aside, she returned to wrapping the thread. She noticed how the gold twinkled like his skin, especially in the relentless midday glare. His bumps and scabby patches were in plain view, but Belle wasn't as bothered by them now. Her eyes kept going back to his hands, and she kept remembering how they touched her, held her, excited and soothed her. And his lips . . .

This silence was growing intolerable. It was one thing to share a quiet moment where words weren't necessary to convey mutual ease. Where there wasn't a hefty topic hanging above their heads like a suspended anvil. Something had to crack this wall between them. Belle rummaged her brain for some, any conversation topic. When she had one, she finished rolling up the gold, picked up the next strand and braced herself. "Now that we're going to spend more time together, I was wondering if . . . if you'd be willing to tell me more about the Frontlands."

The wheel slowed a little, although Rumplestiltskin made it look as if he hadn't slowed down his hands at all. "There's nothing really to tell."

"Please? Just a little?"

He gave the wheel a firmer push. "Not today."

Belle swallowed her disappointment and continued her task. She wasn't surrendering yet. "Do you have any family?"

The imp took his time. The wheel, the straw and gold kept up their pace. "I did. Once."

Relieved, she ventured with great care into this uncharted wilderness. "But now you're alone."

His voice was soft and tight. "Yes."

"Have you been alone for a long time?"

He didn't say. His eyes were fastened on the wheel, downcast and half-closed.

She understood. Belle risked scooting her stool closer to his. She slowed her coiling. "Sounds lonely." She knew Rumplestiltskin wouldn't respond to this judgement, so she pressed on before he could speak. "Whenever I'm lonely, I tell myself stories. Ones I've heard and read so many times I know them by heart. Sometimes I make up stories, too, but they're not as good." She quietly giggled. "Sometimes it's easier living someone else's life in a story than living my own. Especially if you already know what's going to happen, and you know things the hero doesn't. It's . . . cheating, I guess. But you still feel their pain and their happiness. It's still real in a way. You wait anxiously for the next obstacle even when you know everything will work out. So different from life." Belle briefly thought of her father, and reminded herself that even in stories not everyone gets a happy ending, good people included. And she thought of Dathomir and wondered if he would meet his just deserts like the cruel despots in her stories.

Rumplestiltskin's pose didn't change much while she spoke, but she detected little things that told her he was listening. The slight angle of his head, the stiffness in his posture. He was at attention. More than was needed to spin. Although she wished he would get over his stubbornness, she brightened knowing she held his interest. When she finished rolling the next coil and leaned over to set it down, Belle took advantage of her bent position for a more a direct look at the wizard's face. "Would you like me to spin you a yarn?" she asked, deadpan.

He finally looked at her, eyes wide. Then he broke into a giggle he'd probably intended to hold in. Once it was out, it was too late to pretend anything. Belle sniggered with him. It was a short exchange that ended with Rumplestiltskin regaining his composure and casually accepting her offer. But the mood changed. Both of them relaxed. Even when he didn't look her way, his ears were arrested to Belle's voice. She told him one of her favorites - the story about the princess with the magical bearskin. She used it to take on a bear's form when her father engaged her to a man she didn't love.

"Wait a minute," he interjected early in the narrative. "Isn't this the one where the king wanted to marry his daughter?"

"There are different versions," said Belle. "This is mine. Don't interrupt."

In any case, the princess decided to escape. She sought the help of a witch who gave her the bearskin. She then fled into the woods and lived there for a time in peace. Well, she did have to figure out how to survive like a bear first. Belle both recalled and improvised little details about the princess's unfortunate encounters with bad berries, a wolf pack, and a male bear that first tried to impress her with a deer it killed, then tried to mate with her.

"Couldn't escape unwanted suitors either way," the wizard quipped. He wagged his eyebrows.

Belle laughed before resuming. Thankfully the princess had enough brains and strength to escape and set a trap for her brutish suitor. Eventually she grew used to the ways of the forest and lived relatively happily. She missed the safer and more comfortable life of a royal, but she felt it necessary to stay away from all people. But one day she found a prince hunting in the woods. He was injured from being thrown off his horse. Filled with compassion and concern, she tended to him. The prince, frightened initially, became astonished and grateful. Once he was patched up with herbs and leaves she knew would take care of his gashes, he invited her to come back to his castle. She agreed, thinking she would be safe from recognition and unwanted advances as long as she kept wearing the bearskin.

She was used to taking care of herself now, and as a bear she did not expect anyone else to treat her as a proper guest. So she volunteered to help with the housework. The prince's mother, the dowager queen, was impressed and quickly took a liking to her. Months went by. The prince and the she-bear-princess grew closer in friendship, then began to fall in love. The dowager queen, and pretty much all the servants, noticed it. Not so with the couple in question. The princess wasn't sure the prince truly loved her. She also wasn't sure she was ready for marriage. The prince took her cautious, aloof behavior as proof that she didn't love him. Irked and distressed, he thought maybe incurring her jealousy would change her feelings for him. One day there was a ball in a nearby kingdom that the prince decided to attend. The princess, who sorely missed dancing, wanted to go as well. The prince teased her about it. He said they'd never let a bear, even a gentle talking one, into the palace, much less a ballroom. He then started boasting how there were sure to be dozens of beautiful women waiting to dance with him. All this made her only more determined. She wanted to go as herself just to one-up him. She confided in the dowager queen, revealing her true form. The queen promised to keep the secret and lent her a gorgeous gown as white and luminous as the moon. The princess made her own way to the ball without the prince's knowledge.

Although the prince was in love with his she-bear friend, he was taken aback by the princess's beauty and wit. He danced with her and no one else all night until she made an excuse to slip away so she could return to the prince's castle. The next day he rambled about his mysterious acquaintance. The disguised princess, far from annoyed or envious, couldn't stop chuckling. It frustrated the prince beyond belief. Soon another ball was thrown. Again the prince went, as did the princess. They reunited and danced, and once more the princess left early. Like before, the prince praised the mystery princess in front of his mother and the she-bear, and the bear laughed to herself. They were both so stubborn, neither able to believe that the other person loved them, which made them too afraid to admit their feelings. The dowager queen had enough of it. She advised the prince to give his enchanting dance partner a ring when they met again. As she expected, both of them went to the next ball. The prince followed his mother's advice. When she returned, the princess wondered what to do with the ring. The queen implored her to put this game to an end and show him the ring while in her bear form. Still fearing rejection, the princess put the ring in a bowl of soup for the prince's lunch the following day. When he found the ring, he demanded to know who put it there. The she-bear came forward and took off the bearskin. As someone might expect, the prince almost went into shock. The princess regaled her history and her fears that he loved her only for her beauty, if at all. He explained that he had loved her before ever seeing her at the ball. And while he thought her very beautiful, he wanted her for who she was. It didn't matter if she chose to stay a bear or not.

"Wouldn't that make things awkward in bed?" asked Rumplestiltskin.

Belle rolled her eyes. "You know that's not the point."

"That's still a pretty big hole in the story. What if she decided to be a bear? What would he do?"

"Who says she didn't stay a bear?"

Rumplestiltskin turned to her, quite astonished. "Did she?"

She squinted coyly. "Maybe. Maybe that's how I want the story to go."

"You can't just change it like that!"

"Why not?"

The wizard stopped spinning so he could face Belle straight-on and gesture with his hands. "People who stay beasts don't get happy endings. It's not how things work. The beast becomes human, _then_ gets the happy ending. It's a long-standing tradition. Besides, the princess became a bear because she didn't want to get married. If she does get married, she has no reason to be a bear anymore."

"You may have a point," said Belle. "On the last part, I mean. I can believe that people who _act_ like beasts tend not get happy endings. But the princess was a good person. She was kind and brave, and as a bear she learned humility and self-reliance. That's why the prince fell in love with her. And to say that a story must end a certain way because its predecessors did is parochial!"

Rumplestiltskin folded his arms. "What about the king? What happened to him?"

Belle had to think on it. "I don't know, actually. I've never heard a version that explained his fate."

"How about this?" Rumplestiltskin shifted forward in his seat. "The king, angry and distressed by his daughter's flight, spends a long time scouring the land for her and comes up empty-handed. He almost goes mad with grief and guilt. Then he's invited to the prince's wedding and, not knowing who the bride is and assuming his daughter is dead, is petrified to see that the _human _bride (thank you very much) looks just like his daughter. Now he thinks he must be mad, but he seeks an audience with her anyway."

"And the two are happily reunited?" asked Belle.

"Where would be the fun in that? No, no. The princess is still angry at her father. She grants him a frosty blessing and gives him the bearskin after explaining how she used it. Then she tells him to leave and never return to the kingdom. The king is heartbroken but understanding. After he leaves, he throws on the bearskin and goes into the woods, never to be seen again."

"Oh, you're a cheery one." Belle put down her finished roll of gold but didn't pick up the next thread. She moved even closer to Rumplestiltskin. "I don't think the princess would be so severe. Of course she has a right to be angry. But now she's with a man she loves. The king doesn't control her life anymore, and he's sorry for what he did. I think she'd forgive him."

Rumplestiltskin tilted his head with a skeptical yet hopeful attitude. "You think so?"

"Sure. You get only one father. That has to count for something."

He knit his fingers together and rested them on his thighs. His eyes flitted down and up - between his hands and her face. He scowled, grave and pensive. Belle left him to think while she wondered about the family and life he didn't want to talk about. Did he have a child? Children? Were they alive or dead? Did it have some connection to his deals for firstborns? Her imagination snatched at ideas that flew about like airborne snowflakes. She tried to imagine him as an ordinary man, if he'd ever been one. A home and a wife and children, and him spinning for a living. It was an exercise in fantasy given his impish behavior. He didn't have the steady demeanor one would expect of a family man. But that could've been as far back as three hundred years ago. While time might not have aged him, that didn't mean it hadn't changed him.

"You admire the princess," said Rumplestiltskin.

Belle tucked away her meditations for later. "Of course."

"But _you_ were engaged to a man you didn't love. Arranged by your father, right?"

She felt a sudden but soft chill, and her stomach ached like she was sick. "What are you saying?"

He leaned forward. There was a critical edge in his otherwise quizzical expression. "Then why didn't you follow the princess's example? Why didn't you run away?"

She scrunched her eyebrows and looked down. Her mouth tried to find a ready explanation. For a while she could offer nothing but little guttural blurts. She felt as though she'd been whacked in the face with a wet cloth, leaving her cold and stinging. This question had passed through her mind before, so she must have answered it. What had she told herself? She couldn't remember. She'd have to improvise yet again.

"It's different. Gaston and I . . . I mean, it had to do with family connections and securing the interests of the town and the land. Gaston had connections, and I . . . didn't _dislike_ him. I didn't love him, nor was I terribly fond of him. But my father . . . he had the interest of his people at heart. So did I. I wasn't being a coward; I was trying to do the right thing. I was trying . . ."

Moments sprang to life in her mind like moving pictures on a wall. She saw her and her father talking it out; how at eighteen she hadn't expressed any interest in other suitors, or any suitors, and Gaston presented a promising opportunity for the Marshlands to at last earn the respect of the other duchies. They'd been mocked over the years, despite the region's prosperity due to the industry of its people. The land itself yielded limited resources. Many a lord had laughed at the idea of building a fiefdom in the midst of a series of marshes. Belle's ancestors had had little choice when it came to the pickings. She wasn't ashamed, though. They'd made the most of it, and it was time other people acknowledged that. She didn't accept the notion of a marriage easily, though. Father and daughter had argued it out. At times anger flooded Belle and drowned her rationale, and she would establish a silent wall between herself and everyone else. But eventually she saw that she couldn't put herself first in this case. Her marriage to Gaston would bring about greater good for a greater number of people. And it wasn't really martyrdom. Gaston, of average intelligence but fierce loyalty, was a fine choice for a husband by general standards and adequate by hers. She'd acquiesced of her own will, her own choice. Had she found him truly intolerable, she would have objected to the match. Belle believed it without doubt until now.

Now she had reason to doubt. Wasn't she seriously considering marriage to a brutal king? The sort of man who, at the time of her betrothal to Gaston, she would never dreamed of giving her hand, or any part of her to? Yet here she was about to do just that. Because she had next to no choice. It was that or escape - and maybe deep down she _was_ a coward.

Belle shut her eyes and gnawed on her lip. Her tears began to rally. She wouldn't let them conquer her yet. Crying would do nothing. She forged ahead. "I was trying to put my people first. Not because I _had_ to, but because I wanted to. Marrying Gaston would have strengthened our connections with other duchies - formed stronger alliances, provided our people with more protection should it be needed. We're not a very big or intimidating fiefdom. We had to guard ourselves against those who might take advantage." She released her fingers, which she'd unwittingly clenched against her legs, leaving light nail indentations in her palms. "I might have gone through with it even if Gaston had been a boor."

Rumplestiltskin snickered. It took Belle a moment to realize why. "No, a boor like the animal, not a _bore_. He _was_ that."

The imp giggled again. She slapped him lightly on the knee to shush him. "My point is he could've been another Dathomir, and I might have not had the nerve to do what that princess did. I thought about it, actually, when you first came to me. You offered me a chance to escape and I didn't take it. I thought I'd be putting myself in more danger. But . . . I just may not be as brave as I thought I could be." The tears threatened again. Belle sniffed to hold them in and looked away from Rumplestiltskin.

Her companion took his time in nervous silence. As the first tear slipped out the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek, one of his scale-speckled fingers caught it and brushed it away. She turned in surprise.

He sat back and cleared his throat, then anchored both hands on his thighs again. "Being reasonably afraid doesn't make you a coward, dearie. It makes you not stupid. You can imagine how many people have called foolishness bravery. It's laughable. What good is bravery, anyway, when the risk is so high?"

"If people only acted when things were easy," said Belle, her voice feeling a bit stronger, "the mighty would always win, and the mighty don't usually act with the best intentions. Sacrifices have to be made sometimes." She hunched over. Her arms were cool and covered with goosebumps. She wanted to curl up somewhere and wallow in her self-deprecation. "What sacrifices have I made? When my people were being slaughtered by soldiers in the marshes or on the road, fleeing for their lives, what did I do to help them? I failed them." That last sentence echoed again and again in her head. She buckled under its merciless truth. More tears came. Belle held her body still so she didn't dissolve into sobs.

The other stool scraped against the floor. Rumplestiltskin adjusted his position so that instead of facing Belle, he sat side-by-side with her, getting close enough that their outer thighs touched. Belle watched his fingers drum against his legs. They beat out a frantic dance that helped distract her from her own punishing thoughts.

"Why do you want to marry the king?" he gently asked.

Belle wiped her eyes and streaked face. "If I could get out of here without marrying him, I'd be the happiest woman in the world. If I had the choice to be free with or without marrying him, I'd marry him only if it meant being able to take care of the people whose lands he's conquered. My people included. I don't know what kind of king he really is, and I doubt he'd give me much say in anything at first. Still, if I have to marry him, I won't be some trophy wife. I'd find a way to use my position for the good of others." She sighed and tossed up a hand. "I know people _say_ those things when they don't have power, and once they do they often go back on their word. I've known people like that in my father's council." Feeling slightly better, she shot Rumplestiltskin a smile. "If I promise to use my position as queen for unselfish reasons, would you promise to check on me now and then and give me a rude awakening if I break my promise?"

"I would be a very poor choice for a conscience."

"You wouldn't do it, then? Even if I said you could rub my nose in my mistakes to your heart's content? That seems like something you would enjoy."

Rumplestiltskin chuckled. "You're probably right. That _would_ be rather fun, wouldn't it?" He gave her a sidelong leer. "What other punishments could I dole out?"

Belle glared at him. "Aren't gloating rights enough?"

"But what if you're in a particularly stubborn mood? What about physical corrective measures? Like . . . oh, I don't know, spanking?"

That truly shocked her. She gawked at him. "Spanking? I'm not a child! I haven't been spanked in years!"

"Oh, but you used to be spanked, eh?" Grinning from ear to ear, he leaned toward her again with lecherous enthusiasm. It made Belle blush and pull away from him. "You were quite a naughty child, I bet. Making trouble for everyone with your wit and your book-learning."

"Actually, when I was four, I broke some china on purpose because my governess wouldn't let me play with the village boys." Belle knew her blush was deepening.

Rumplestiltskin twittered with rapturous glee. He wouldn't stop so long as Belle kept her head turned away and her blush persisted. She hadn't meant to revisit any of these memories, now or ever. That damn imp. On a blind impulse her hand shot out and grabbed the collar of his black-scaled vest. She didn't grab it hard, but enough to hold him when she whipped her face to him. "Will you shut-!"

What Belle hadn't considered was just how close he was sitting to her, and what it would be like face-to-face with him. More like mouth-to-mouth, barely an inch apart. One good thing happened, though: Rumplestiltskin stopped laughing. He looked just as stunned as she was. A heatwave much different from the rageful one she experienced earlier hit her when his breath tickled her lips. Her first instinct was to retreat. Always her choice strategy when it came to this level of unfamiliarity and discomfort. Yet something else maintained her grip on his collar and let her hold her position. Out of this same source of certainty came her mother's words, an old adage she needed to trust in more: Do the brave thing . . .

So, against her anxieties and self-preservation instincts, she closed the distance and kissed him. She had never been the first one to kiss someone else. Ever. Not with Rumplestiltskin or Gaston. For the first few seconds she regretted her choice. Her first impulse still screamed at her to take it back and get away. After a few seconds of just their lips touching - none of that tongue and teeth nonsense - she realized it wasn't Rumplestiltskin she was afraid of. She feared her own response and her failure to be up to form. Her inexperience, regardless how much men in romance novels adored their virgin lovers, put her at an unwanted disadvantage. But Rumplestiltskin was in no hurry to object or point out her weak points. Incredibly, he didn't even push beyond the bar she'd set. He did loosen his lips, which Belle imitated, and they both latched on more firmly. She couldn't remember if his lips felt this warm last night. Maybe it was her body heating up. The coolness that had coated her arms was gone, although the goosebumps stayed.

Slowly she pulled back. The smallest niggle of desire to keep kissing him crept into her stomach. But she had something to say before anything went further. She opened her eyes. Rumplestiltskin's eyes remained closed until she spoke.

"Rumplestiltskin?"

The shadowed lids fluttered halfway open.

Belle swallowed. "Would it be all right if you stayed with me tonight?"

That got his eyes to open wider.

"I just thought that if we spent a few days sleeping together - I mean sleeping in the same place - I could get used to it, then maybe we could . . . you know . . . would you be okay with that?"

One long moment of perplexity passed. Then Rumplestiltskin nodded, never saying a word.

"Thank you," said Belle, heart feeling lighter. She relinquished his vest collar with delicate reluctance. "I'll, uh, let you get back to the spinning." Every little hair was standing on end. Belle managed to withdraw herself and her stool back to the gold without tripping over her feet or shaking like a newborn foal.

He spun the gold and she rolled it for several wordless minutes. It was hard to tell if this new round of silence sat well with Belle. Her thoughts flew in dozens of directions like bees coming out of a hive. Last night, this coming night, their discussion, their kiss - the past, present and future clashing together in a frenzy. Then Rumplestiltskin, in a voice rattled and sweetened by shyness, said the magic words. "You can tell me another story, if you want."

Belle did want to. So she told him another tale, this time one she had some grievances with. It was about a dragon that plagued a kingdom, and it was eventually defeated by a foreign knight and a princess who had been intended as a sacrifice. Belle didn't like how, once the dragon was tamed by fastening the princess's girdle to its neck, the knight still slew it. They argued about it a good portion of the day while Rumplestiltskin continued to make gold with his sparkling scaly hands.


	8. Chapter 8

You demanded it, so I delivered. Thank you everyone for your love and encouragement. You're such sweethearts! There are, by my estimation, about two chapters left. Maybe three if things get too long. Rating will remain T, but I'm going to test my boundaries in the coming chapters. I'll also probably write up M-rated companion pieces to fill in he censured bits for those wanting the really juicy stuff. Sound good? What would like to see in those pieces? Please keep sending in your heartening feedback!

* * *

After finishing yet another story, Belle's eyes went to the window. The slit glowed a deeper shade of orange gold. "The sun's setting," she said. Her tone was a cocktail of excited anticipation, uncertainty and worry.

"I'm nearly done," Rumplestiltskin assured her. His hands fed the straw faster than ever.

That wasn't her greatest concern, truth be told, although completing the king's quota was important. What a quota it was! Rolls of thread covered almost half the floor even when stocked in three layers. Would Dathomir order more each time? Would his greed outpace even Rumplestiltskin's abilities? The thought made her ill, so Belle discarded it. Stories were set aside so the imp could finish his work and Belle could snatch more straw to add to her pallet. They would need enough for two now. Her face flushed even while holding its concentrated expression.

She found something both comforting and unsettling in night's descent. The darkness would wrap around their secret. In one sense, Belle liked that she couldn't see it in bright, unflattering light. But in darkness one could also not see the things to guard against - an unwanted touch or a leering smirk, for instance. Would the night encourage her to do things she'd hate herself for the next morning? Was it immature to figuratively wear a blindfold and pretend she was still an innocent, when reason told her to acknowledge and accept of her soon-to-be-lost purity? She wasn't a child anymore. It may have been improper to give herself unmarried to a man she made no romantic commitment to, but it wasn't a crime.

It was for the baby, she repeated to herself.

The sun's departure signaled more than the bonding time she and Rumplestiltskin would share in her bed. Before she heard footsteps, Rumplestiltskin raised a finger in warning and vanished. The door shortly swung open. Guards trooped through to carry off the gold. No Dathomir to dispense unwelcomed ogling and veiled threats. Once she was alone again, breath came more easily.

"So," a high, halting voice said in the dark, "shall we?"

She turned around. Rumplestiltskin stood next to the pallet, hands clasped in what she read to be an anxious pose. Was he nervous? Belle smiled at the idea, even with the butterflies inside her. "Yes, let's. You must be tired."

He waved away her comment. "Not at all. I spin more than that on my own every day."

His words were a sharp reminder that he had a life outside their deal. What did he do with it? Was he in the middle of other deals as well? Where did he go home to? How did he relax? Maybe this evening, and a few evenings like it, would provide answers. She walked over to him with her head level. Her heart on the other hand thumped a fast, relentless rhythm. A shiver moved through her when her eyes locked on his. Their shared timidity gave her courage to grip his hand. His fingers carefully closed around hers. She stepped past him and knelt on the straw. He slowly followed.

"You said you had a family once," Belle asked. She reclined on her side. "Were you ever married? You must have been in this situation before."

Rumplestiltskin lounged flat on his back. His eyes looked at her while his face compromised between her and the ceiling. "I didn't have to be married to be familiar with this situation." There was that shrill tone again. The childish pitch that tried to put a mocking coat on everything when he wanted to back out of a serious discussion.

She leveled a raised eyebrow at him. "That would explain why you're so nervous."

"I am _not_ nervous." Now he sounded piqued.

Sighing, she took both his hands in hers. The act encouraged him to turn more toward her. "Do you think I'll judge you if you are? You don't need to be defensive. I don't need to be impressed. I'd rather you admit to it and make things easier on both of us."

The exhale through his nose was almost a snarl. He looked down so the lids hid whatever emotions his eyes threatened to reveal. "I simply haven't done this in a while. And I'm not sure what you expect of me right now."

"I promise I'll tell you. When I'm ready." To be the inexperienced one making the calls did strike her as backwards. But what a relief it was, too. Her body wiggled to his until she could rest her head against his chest and drape her arms around him. "This is fine for now."

His hands drifted up and settled around her. If he wasn't nervous, she couldn't explain his hesitance except for being afraid of hurting her. She asked if that was so.

"Well, I _am_ the Dark One," he said, shrugging.

She craned her head back to look at his face. "The Dark One?"

"Yup. The most feared creature in all the land."

The phrase had a familiar ring, but she'd never thought to connect Rumplestiltskin with such a title. "What exactly is a Dark One?"

He giggled. "There's only one Dark One, dearie. There is no one more powerful than me."

"Even fairies?"

A pause. He cleared his throat. "For the most part, yes."

Belle had never met a fairy - that didn't mean she hadn't read about them, they being such mysterious creatures. According to texts in her father's library, certain fairies had more power than others. It depended on how long they had existed and what responsibilities they held. Considering that Rumplestiltskin's abilities, though surely limited, covered a wide spectrum, it took little imagination to believe that he superseded many fairies. Not all of them, however.

Her mind circled back to her questions about his origins. Fairies could live much longer than three hundred years, placing Rumplestiltskin as someone comparatively new to the echelons of magic-wielders. As she pondered this revelation, Belle stroked Rumple's side. He had traded the dragon-leather vest for a red, velvet brocade one. When had he switched? Not before he'd finished spinning. Even with magic, it wasn't feasible that he changed outfits while they had been in each other's constant company. When he disappeared as the guards came in - that had to be it. To what end? This one's texture had a more luxuriant association than the leather, but it did not seem as comfortable. It was rigid. She was feeling some stiff material under the outer layer, not his chest or back. Its collar stood so high it reached his chin. No wonder Rumplestiltskin had chosen to lie on his back first. There was no other way to rest in this contraption! It was as bad as a corset.

Belle sat up. Rumplestiltskin's eyes, which had half-closed, flew open. "What? What's wrong?"

"How are you comfortable in that vest?"

Hands pressed to it as if to defend the article from her attack. "Comfortable enough."

She caught her bottom lip under her teeth. "Would you mind taking it off?"

The imp stared at her, then awkwardly rose to a sitting position. The vest kept his back straight. "Is it going to keep you awake if I wear it?" He brandished a hint of snark. At the same time he sounded serious.

"I want us both to be comfortable." Her stomach erupted into a flutter. The imprisoned butterflies traveled down to her core before rising into her chest. She swallowed quietly and let her hands take charge. They grabbed the vest's big round buttons and liberated them one by one.

It hadn't been decided how far she intended this to go. She did want the vest out of the way for both their sake. When she let herself think about it, it made sense. To feel comfortable caressing him the way a wife caresses a husband, she ought to begin with more innocent touches through clothing. Clothing that gave her access to his natural shape. Nothing he wore would let her do that. And here men were the ones allowed to remove their shirts in public without scandal!

Rumplestiltskin appeared paralyzed with shock. He did not help or hinder her. Last night must have informed him it was better to behave passively after seeing how his advances brought Belle to tears. That he now gave her implicit permission to do whatever she wished - it was rather sweet. She didn't know how to feel when the final black button came free and, after looking for a few seconds at his face, she pushed the vest open. No more skin showed than what the vest had already revealed. Nonetheless, it displayed enough with the low V. Even in the dark, his scales reflected tiny shards of light. The bizarre trait enchanted Belle into a smile. She crawled forward to slough off the vest until he could extract his arms.

Their faces hovered close together. Fire hit low in her belly. It was no wild burst of passion, but it persuaded Belle to stay so she could feel his breath stroke her mouth. She actually liked it better than kissing. There was something both viscerally and spiritually intimate about sharing another person's air.

He had changed not only his vest but his shirt as well. She'd seen it a few days ago. The silk fabric felt cool and lush. Belle pinched it without touching Rumplestiltskin's arm underneath to appreciate its sleek texture. The froufrou ruffles accenting the sleeve cuffs amused her. Who knew the _Dark One_ could be such a fop? Her hands finally pressed down to feel both him and the shirt, then swept up from the cuffs to his shoulders to take in his slight frame, more bony than toned. He needed some meat. Maybe his rejection of her meals was caused not only by snobbery, but by general negligence of sustenance. Her hands continued up until they went around the back of his neck and laced into his hair. As if taking a cue, Rumple's hands rested on her waist and pulled her against him. He rose up on his knees so Belle would not fall into his lap. She accepted his first exercise in assertive action. With their bodies touching from chest to thigh, they could wrap their arms further around one another. Mouths lingered a hair's width apart. The end of his nose nudged hers. Her thoughts on whether or not to kiss him scattered when his hold tightened and he said, beginning to smile, "Let's make another deal. I'll leave the vest off if you take off your corset."

Every word lavished her lips with hot streams of air and cast a thickening haze over her thoughts. Still their meaning registered. Her eyes rounded. "H-how am I supposed to do that without taking my other clothes off?"

"Is it a deal?"

Her body sweltered in several places, her face just one. "I . . . I suppose."

His grin expanded. Fingers trailed up and down the sides of her torso. At once her breasts and ribs relaxed with release while remaining covered by the other garments. All right, she had to admit it felt freeing. She hadn't allowed herself to take off her corset previous nights. She didn't want to give the guards ideas. Or Dathomir, for that matter.

"Where did it go?" she couldn't resist asking.

"No worries. It will return to you in the morning."

She laughed despite herself. Her head finished wagging and her mouth returned to its earlier position. This time Rumplestiltskin took the lead. His mouth met hers more gently than what she did to him at the spinning wheel. It resembled their first kiss, minus the awkward bump. They fell into it more smoothly thanks to practice. Belle let herself lean into him, trusting him to support her, and little by little she melted from the heat of his body and the slow attentions of his hands. Her own hands migrated down his spine and ran loops over poking vertebrae. He ought to feed himself better, she thought even as her fingers savored the dip between his shoulder blades and how his muscles flexed and softened from incremental movements.

Concern over his diet was lost when he pulled out of the kiss and went right back in, this time to give her a chance to take more of his lower lip. She liked having something to hold on to, and soon she was sucking on it. Her tongue finally got curious and gave his lip a tentative lick. It didn't taste like much of anything, but the textures of its smooth inside and scale-peppered outside tempted her tongue to try another brush-over. Rumplestiltskin sighed and squeezed her against him. Without needing to think, she reciprocated. Sweet tension swelled and passed, and though the embrace stayed snug, their bodies relaxed. Suddenly Belle felt lightheaded, as though her bones had turned to vapor. Her body teetered.

She broke from the kiss and gasped. Her eyes opened to see his - those huge irises and the focused pupils that saw everything and left her trembling - before she lay back down on her side. He went down after her; his hands never quite left her waist. Once they were settled on the straw they dove back in. Lips played with lips. Hands explored the safer regions of each other's landscape. She went as far as sliding her hands across his chest and over the waistband of his leathers, where her clever fingers found the braces that latched them to the vest. Her mouth grinned as she undid the clips and fully unleashed the corset-like trapping. His fingers risked grazing the front laces of her bodice and the upper swell of her bottom. Belle barely had time to chastise him before the hands traveled on to more modest spots. Their kisses were still tame, even when Belle's tongue awoke to get better acquainted with Rumple's lips. In one daring moment, the imp's tongue met her lips, which to her own surprise opened to suck on it. A sigh that leaned toward a groan flooded his mouth. Her tongue greeted the intruder and earned a real, albeit short and breathy groan. Belle still deferred from opening her mouth further. This was her first experience in finding pleasure with her tongue. It shyly but with increasing interest rubbed its tip against that of Rumple's. A spasm ran down the center of her on first contact, almost hitting that spot between her thighs.

Restrained as their kisses were, she enjoyed them. The rest of her relished the figure-eight patterns his hands sketched and the feel of his soft hair, lean face, back, shoulders, arms, chest, stomach. When her jaw muscles tired and she had her fill, she slowly withdrew. Her greedy lips held on to his lower lip a second longer. Afterward their mouths basked in their steamy breath. She whispered an apology for not being a more exciting lover. He gave a smile she didn't quite understand. His grin and glittering eyes seemed to laugh, but they were warm, not harsh. Maybe he liked how slow they were going while also finding her maidenly trepidation funny. As he preferred to say nothing, Belle had no choice but to cuddle and hope she wasn't a great disappointment. Rumplestiltskin rubbed her back and pressed his cheek to her hair. She could hear his heart going at a jaunty pace. It sounded like the beat of a happy man. Or of an aroused male hankering for more. Her mettle crumbled at the idea of continuing. She needed to shift attention away from her meager performance.

"So, is there a special reason you can't tell me whether you were married once? Or twice? Or more times than you can count?"

He giggled more deeply than usual. She smiled at how it echoed through his chest cavity. "Why ruin the enigma by telling you something so trivial?"

"It's hardly trivial. I'm just curious how experienced you are. You could perhaps give me ideas on how to handle Dathomir in bed when the time comes."

"Hmph. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction."

She looked up with a surprised and appalled scowl. "How about giving _me_ the satisfaction?"

Although the corner of his mouth twitched upward, a hint of his earlier nervousness returned. "Is that an invitation to keep you company post-nuptials?"

A blush conflagrated across her cheeks. "I'm not making any more promises. I don't want to even think about nuptials!" Her forehead flattened his skin where the shirt opened. Drawing in air and courage, Belle moved up so more of her face made contact with bare flesh. It scratched a little, but its coolness acted like a balm. She wanted that chill to bleed through her, extinguish every ache. Splash out the stubborn fires of her terror and uncertainty. Bad dreams of the past and future still pursued, and she wanted the cool control to drown them into smoke.

"There's so much around me I don't know or understand, and I hate it. I hate being left in the dark. I hate not knowing what's happening to my people, the rest of my family and friends. I'm not even sure what happened to Gaston. For all I know, Dathomir lied and my father's alive, holed away somewhere to make everyone think he's dead." She cut in as Rumple's chest rose with air, about to speak. "No, don't tell me. He _is_ probably dead and I should accept that. But I don't know for sure. You're the only thing I can see for myself. And you're . . . interesting. I want to know you better." She breathed deeply for a few minutes in hopes of relief. All he gave was more back-rubbing. That did help calm her a few degrees. A roiling hunger continued churning inside her.

"Would it be so terrible for me to know you?"

His rubs slowed. "It's not a simple question. I keep things about myself to myself for a reason. For _many_ reasons. Most are unpleasant."

She tilted her face up. "You mean, you'd rather people find you difficult to understand because they don't know you, not because of what they do know."

He lowered his mouth to her forehead. "Yes, I suppose," he murmured.

"But even if you've done awful things . . . you don't seem like someone who wouldn't have his reasons. You wouldn't hurt someone just because you could, would you? For fun? I mean . . ." Belle tensed against him.

"Why wouldn't I?" he whispered. There was no menace. Just cold, sad deprecation.

She held that tone in her mind. That wasn't the tone of a man who gloated over the agony he'd caused. It couldn't be. It belonged to someone who knew what he'd done and believed it was all he was capable of - that it came with being the Dark One. "Have you?" She bit her lip.

His breath rushed against her skin. "Probably. I can't remember everything I've done."

Her gaze drifted to the far wall over his shoulder. She needed a blank space to stare into to organize her thoughts. A part of her convulsed at the realization that she was in the arms of a man who had hurt many people. Maybe even a man who had done unspeakable things. Someone people might have called a monster. _He_ had called himself a monster. But most of her held her nerve. People who do awful things should be held accountable for their deeds. That didn't mean there wasn't any good in them. No one could know what was in a person's heart until they truly knew them. What was in Rumplestiltskin's heart? She would have landed in a different situation had he wanted only power or her misery. They had negotiated this deal, and he was doing what he could to fulfill her condition without taking advantage. He could rape her and say he'd done what she wanted. Instead he was spending the night soothing her insecurities with cursory kisses and touches. She barely ever had to divert him from going beyond her comfort zone. Why, if he was indeed nothing but an evil fiend underneath?

Belle wrestled with these thoughts and more. Eventually her next question broke the silence. "Why do you make deals?"

Rumplestiltskin's hands stopped. They lay flat on her back. "Because all magic comes with a price."

When she gave him a quizzical look, he briefly explained how magic of any kind required payment. Where magic gives you something, something must be taken.

A grin curled on Belle's lips. "You see? You don't do it only to watch people squirm. You probably like that, but that's not the underlying reason."

"That doesn't make what I do more forgivable."

"No. But that's why I said you're interesting. You have all these reasons to do what you do. Some cruel, some more . . . understandable." Her eyes found his face again. "See? Not that difficult to understand. I think you like making it difficult for people to understand you."

The imp snickered. "Well, of course I do."

"But why?"

Without warning he propped up on one arm and leaned over her. His hair dangled past his cheeks. Her pulse throbbed in her ears at the change. She couldn't say for sure if she was afraid.

"I don't want people to understand me," he said. "I want them to fear me. People fear what they don't understand. If they understood me, their fear would disappear. And once you no longer fear something, you control it."

She considered this. Some mulling cleared the brush away, and an epiphany dawned. Belle widened her eyes and smiled. "Oh! Now I understand!"

Rumplestiltskin flinched. "What?"

"That's what all _this_ is." She gestured broadly with her arms, careful to not hit him on accident.

The imp sat back. "What's _this_?" He copied her movements.

"You," said Belle.

"I don't do that."

She laughed. "Yes, you do!"

"No, no." He dismissively waved his hand. "You must have me mistaken for someone else."

Her eyes rolled up. She and the imp became quiet. The warmth his hands provided slowly dissipated, and she began to miss it. Her body tingled when Rumplestiltskin leaned over her again. "Why are you so interested in understanding other people when you have your own aura of mystery going on?"

Belle reeled at the question. "What? What are you talking about? Are you saying I'm mysterious?"

"Yeah." He made it sound obvious.

"You're ridiculous! I am _not_ a mysterious person!"

He pointed a finger at her. "You are the most confounding individual I have ever met."

"In all your three-hundred years? Yeah, right."

The ironic scowl on his pointed face turned serious. He reclaimed her waist and lay down with his eyes arrested on hers. The crease in his brow smoothed down when they were back to holding one another. "Why is that hard to believe?"

"Well . . . no one ever told me I was confounding." Frankly, she couldn't see it in herself. Everyone had private thoughts and desires to keep secret. For herself, though, she had little reason to conceal her true nature. Sure, there were times when her anger and a yearning for vengeance boiled in her heart, and she did not want to share that fact on a common basis. The fact she felt these things did not mean they defined her. What she wanted, regardless of situation and fleeting emotions, was to be the best person she could be, and to help other people be the best they could be. Was that so strange?

She flicked off a strand of moss-grey hair that had fallen on Rumplestiltskin's cheek. "Are you sure you've not met someone just as mysterious? I'm not a hard person to figure out. You must have encountered someone I remind you of. There are only twelve distinct personalities in the whole human race. No two people are exactly alike, but they have close matches, I'm sure."

"Maybe," said Rumplestiltskin with unfaltering focus, "but I haven't met one like you yet."

"Oh, come now! You've probably just forgotten. I'm not anyone special."

His jaw tensed. There went his nostrils again, flaring as though she said something offensive. Thinking it wiser to relent, Belle moved in so her nose and forehead abutted his. "Well, thank you for the sentiment," she said, closing her eyes.

The moments that followed gave his words time to sink in. Aside from her parents, no one from Belle's memory had ever said as much. Certainly not Gaston, who one might imagine would throw around such an idea to coddle her and earn her gratitude. Gaston wasn't really a flatterer, though, except of his own abilities. Other men had praised her appearance, and some even complimented her wit in conversation. But many women were beautiful and smart and witty. These traits did not distinguish her, and she could live with that. It was therefore very difficult to understand Rumplestiltskin's reason for his remarks. Especially someone who had seen so much of the world and seemed to have grown jaded. Make no mistake - Belle thought it wonderful to feel unique and be told she was unique. If she hadn't earned those words and that feeling, however, they became gross illusions. She wouldn't let anyone feed her lies.

"But, just so you know, you don't need to say things like that to make me feel better. I'm not saying you're lying, but I know it can't really be true. You shouldn't say something so loaded and run the risk that you were wrong or -"

Rumplestiltskin shoved his mouth against her unsuspecting lips. Teeth lightly scraped them. Her eyes popped opened. She grabbed his shirt collar and make a half-hearted attempt to push him off. With her mouth incapacitated, her brain shouted protests and hoped his magical senses could pick them up. He had no right to cut her off like this! She was making a valid point and he thought kissing her to shut her up would . . .

He seemed oblivious. With words rendered useless, Belle angrily kissed him back. She tried biting his lip in retaliation. What few nips she got in provoked more vigorous sucking and licking from him. He even had the effrontery to give a pleased groan. _Wicked man._ It didn't help that a fervor invaded her as she mentally put his actions together. Even if he was mistaken in the moment, he meant what he said. She was something different to him. A new mystery, even after three-hundred years of the same stories. Now he was kissing her. It felt different. As the aggression petered out, a deeper tenderness took its place. Annoyance failed to prevent her heart from thrumming madly.

They both came out of the kiss panting. A dozen seconds of air set Belle's thoughts in order. She frowned and smacked her fist against Rumplestiltskin's chest, then turned over. "That was incredibly rude."

"You hitting me my chest?"

"You interrupting me!"

A breathless pause passed. "My apologies. Won't happen again."

"It better not."

His chuckle tickled the back of her neck. For a while, though, they lay where they were and made no more attempts at touching or talking. Her body unwound enough that she approached sleepiness. At that moment his fingers decided to start dancing on her back. Belle glared over her shoulder.

The imp's spindly fingers retracted. He gave a chagrined, puppy-ish look.

Whether it was the look or how he managed to behave himself after that, Belle's put-out mood subsided. She sighed and shimmied to line up her back along his front. A smile unseen by him illuminated her face. Her hand found his, brought it around and hugged it against her stomach. "Goodnight."

Another sigh washed over her neck. "Goodnight."

* * *

The nights they spent together followed a similar pattern. What was intended to be a few nights became a week. And then another. And another.

As Dathomir had stated, he soon established a schedule where Belle would spin for two days and rest for one. Rumplestiltskin usually came to her the night before the first spinning day and stayed the following one. Sometimes he stuck around for a third night but would always be gone by the morning. Belle's rest days went by in solitude. She understood that these were the only days Rumplestiltskin was free of his deal with her, and so he had to commit that time to his other obligations, which he still deferred from speaking about.

As the weeks passed, the imp seemed to amend these absences by making the remainder of her incarceration more bearable. He started bringing a small lunch he assured was for him; after seeing her decrepit meal, he offered a consolating piece of cheese or strip of meat. These delicacies that had once been a regular part of Belle's diet transformed into heavenly delights that made her sigh, laugh and almost cry. It was only at her insistence that Rumplestilstilskin ate his own food. Before long they were consuming the entire contents of his lunch basket. Belle foisted the prison food on the indiscriminatory rodents.

Unfortunately, these more lavish meals brought on the embarrassing consequence of employing the wretched hole that served as the latrine more frequently. Belle had thus far succeeded in using it when no one was around or when Rumple was too engrossed in his spinning to notice. The first time that nature called her in an urgent way and she was forced to explain herself, Rumplestiltskin sighed like an amused parent. "Dearie, I _did_ notice, and it's no trouble. So long as we don't have plumbing issues."

That was not to be the end of similarly mortifying admittances. At the one-month mark of their arrangement, after many incidents of heated kisses and snug spooning, she thought she might have it in her to take things the rest of the way. The morning of the intended leap greeted her with a different sign. When night took its turn and Rumplestiltskin settled beside her, she told him it was her time of the month.

"You don't have to stay with me tonight . . . or this week."

Rumplestiltskin angled his head. "Why?"

"Well, we can't . . . you know."

"We didn't do it before and that didn't stop us." He wiggled his brows.

"But I'm . . . you don't find it repulsive?"

A clawed finger scratched his chin. "Should I? I've been known to drink the blood of children."

She shoved him to the ground and sat on his stomach until he apologized for the quip. He was rewarded with her shuffling off and giving him a peck on the nose.

"Hope I didn't ruin your clothes," she quipped back.

He conjured up enough sanitary rags to bandage an army. That put an end to the discussion.

While in part she wished she could have avoided these topics, they were easily forgotten most of the time. The days were full of more appropriate conversation points. Belle continued telling stories, but she encouraged the spinner to share a few of his exploits. As one might expect, he remained vague at the start, and only with patient questioning did he open into detailed narratives. Most of them never touched on personal points in Rumplestiltskin's life. Belle nevertheless took pleasure in his tales of distant lands and even other worlds where magic worked differently. He often referred to a man he used to travel with named Jefferson.

"He doesn't travel with you anymore?"

"Not at all, from what I've heard."

"Why not?"

Somberness darkened his tone. "Personal matters. He lost his wife. They had a daughter he had to take care of."

Belle looked sadly at the gold she wound. "Poor man. Do you ever visit him?"

"I prefer not to linger in the past," Rumplestiltskin solemnly remarked.

These dropped morsels only whetted Belle's curiosity. More daylight came and went with her still wanting to hear his adventures. They may not have had quite as many cutthroat pirates or dramatic sword fights, but in many respects she found more to savor in the quests and deals Rumplestiltskin imposed on himself. The clever antics and bizarre turns that saved and thwarted him. Best of all, she loved when he gave vivid descriptions of places and people, going as far as imitating accents. If the accent was at all familiar, she would try it out to the imp's praise or hilarity.

Rumplestiltskin grew comfortable with sharing his accounts with Belle during the day. At night, though, even when she wanted him to keep going, he insisted on listening about her. Belle felt sure he would find her boring with her provincial experiences; she had barely ever left her father's fiefdom. In answer, Rumple asked to hear about the few journeys she had made away from home. After she told those, he asked about her family. There she had a few entertaining antedotes. They were a comfort in light of the recent tragedy.

On some nights, however, once she fell asleep, the nightmares would circle like jackals. She might wake with only a start, Rumplestiltskin at her back or her lying on his chest or stomach. On those nights she would listen to his slow, soft breathing until she could doze off again. A few times she awoke in tears and sleep would not return so easily. She would lock her sobs in her chest so as not to disturb Rumple. The fifth night this happened, the sobs fought for liberty. The mounting memories of her father and the imagined trials of being Dathomir's captive wife slammed her in one moment. They sent her spinning into a vortex of fear, sorrow, self-blame, and eventually the beginnings of hysteria. Her resistance failed; the sobs broke out.

Against Belle's hope that he was too deep in sleep to hear, Rumplestiltskin started stroking her shoulder and asked what was wrong.

All control left her. She rolled over in his arms and buried her face in his chest. Tears poured out, staining his shirt. "I'm sorry," she blubbered over and over. Her tired, grief-burdened mind could not muster the will to explain herself right then. All strength pooled into the muscles that let her cry as hard as possible. The most she could do otherwise was grit her teeth from time to time.

His hands danced in slow circles on her back. In a kinder whisper than she had yet heard from him, he assured and coaxed her into talking. She nodded when he asked if she'd had a nightmare.

"I keep dreaming about my father," Belle finally said, still crying. "Sometimes I forget he's gone, and when I wake up and remember . . . it's unbearable! I've lost the only family I had left. I've lost everyone I've ever known. I want to be brave - I'm trying hard to be brave! But it hurts . . . it hurts remembering I'm alone. Sometimes so much I'd rather be dead." She sniffed and wept on. With her eyes becoming puffy and snot trying to escape her nose, she knew she must have looked a disgusting wreck.

In much happier moments he sometimes teased her with kisses or raspberries on the neck. She would thrash and laugh and shout, "Stop, you beast!" This night he coursed gentle fingertips from her jaw to her shoulder. A sprinkle of kisses trailed the same path, collecting tears as he went. Then he nuzzled into the juncture of her neck. The combined sensations from his mouth and his comforting hands set Belle's heart racing, and her sobs started to ebb. She tightened her hold. They lay that way until her quaking frame stilled. What followed felt like another dream, if only because Belle did not feel like her proper self, stripped bare by her grief and stoked by Rumplestiltskin's unexpected tenderness. Quiet panic, like what someone feels when they begin thinking about their mortality - a frantic lust for life that only fear can inspire - stole away her inhibitions.

Belle knit her fingers into his hair and guided him to her mouth. It was their neediest kiss yet. Before long she opened up and let his tongue taste her. It did not matter in that desperate breath of time if she found it pleasant - she ached with a hunger worse than food starvation. She needed him there, as close as they could get. She needed his sighs and moans crashing into hers. Tongues lashed out in clumsy, passionate combat. Teeth clacked together a few times. Fingers twisted into fabric. Nails pressed through to get at the flesh underneath. Raw instinct urged them both on. The fragment of Belle's sense that remained noted with detached amusement that they weren't kissing so much as trying to devour one another. A cannibalistic solution to quelling the loneliness they both perhaps suffered from.

Even that did not seem to do enough. Rumplestiltskin grabbed her hip and ground his pelvis against hers. She whimpered from the scorching contact and the frighteningly insistent bulge pressed against her lower belly. It might have been the thrust or the way her hips and thighs shifted in response - either way, she felt a hot liquid gush and understood, with some delay, that it wasn't the gush of womanly arousal. She was in the middle of her menstral cycle. There might have been arousal, too, but any ideas of accelerating things came to a halt.

She mumbled his name into his mouth. It went ignored. He kissed her so hard she almost forgot what she needed to say. She could think only when they broke contact. Rumplestiltskin seemed bent on sidetracking her. His lips and teeth first assailed her neck, next her ear. Though she repeated his name in a sterner note, one hand stayed tangled in his hair.

"_Rumple_," she ground out, teeth locked. "I'm still . . . I'm still having . . . I have my _AH_!"

He had licked the ear's shell and sucked on the lobe. "I don't mind," he whispered.

Panting, Belle turned a glare on him. "I do."

Huge, hooded eyes flitted over her tense face. "I could speed it up-"

"No." She shut her eyes and nipped her lip. "You said magic always has a price. Whether it would be me or you, I don't want anyone to have to pay for something so . . . minor." Heat rippled through her. Cheeks inflamed and chest heaving, Belle nevertheless regained restraint. Her eyes focused on his, sporting a calmer blue shade. The lids and lashes shadowed them like a window curtain shutting out their midday brilliance. "Sorry for ruining the moment, but maybe it's just as well."

She prepared for anger, accusations, maybe even forced continuation. There was certainly frustration wrenching his features that a part of her wanted to kiss away. If she tried to, though, they would more likely start the same cycle. Had he lost his temper, or at the very least threw a snide word at her, she could have resigned to turning away and going to sleep. But his face drooped and softened around the lines. He glanced furher down - to her lips, she wanted to think, or at nothing. His eyes closed like a door to a room she had been afraid to enter, and now that it was barred from her, regret choked her and sent her pounding on it for another chance. Even worse, she feared she'd hurt him in some delicate spot she wasn't sure existed.

Rumplestiltskin flopped over. He and she lay on their backs. Their heavy breaths echoed one another, never quite matching. After blinking back a salty sting, Belle's eyes wandered to him. His shirt was more open. It exposed him from neck to just above his navel. His chest surged like ocean waves. The air from his nose reminded her of wind that blows above the seas and carries boats and sailors to mysterious horizons. She glanced further down to the hard shape she'd felt before in his trousers. The leather material contained him more than thinner, looser fabrics would have. She'd felt it anyway, and it was a good guess that it was still there.

Belle crawled over him and kissed his chest. Her lips felt a few hurried heartbeats. "I'm sorry. If you want, I could help out." Every inch of her skin that could and wasn't already scarlet acquired the color. Rumplestiltskin's undisguised shock exacebated it, but she refused to flinch. Slim fingers brushed down his naked chest. They took their time enjoying the alternating rough and smooth texture. They came across a trail of sparse, light hair that stretched on beneath the buttoned half of the shirt and the trousers' waist band. The hair was a pleasant, unexpected feature to Belle. She had thought at one point that aside from his scalp and brows, the latter of which had little to boast, the imp was otherwise hairless. His chest had none, and for a while she saw no facial hair. On a previous night not far back, however, she had caressed his jaw and felt a speckle of stubble that could easily be taken as rougher scales. That and the hair on his belly made him more human to her. She smiled from both this thought and how he started taking short, excited gasps as her hand traveled.

Wanting to have more room to maneuver, she slipped her hand free only to resume outside his clothes. Apprehension stalled her when she approached her destination. What little reading she had to guide her seemed insufficient now that she faced the real thing. Belle breathed deep and compelled her fingers to cup the crest and underbelly of the bulge. Another gasp and a strained groan rewarded her.

Rumplestiltskin's hand caught her wrist. He sat up huffing. "Don't. I can take care of that."

"I said I want to help. It's my fault, after all." She grinned through her deepening blush. His worried look prompted her to give a gentle squeeze. Every part of him reacted: the hidden member throbbed, his hips jerked forward, his torso spasmed, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth gaped in a moan. His hand approached crushing her wrist. He pulled her away and begged for mercy. Mainly through his expressions since words could be issued only in gasping sputters. She had never heard nor seen him this ragged, vulnerable and pleading. It softened her resolve while simultaneously stirring a thrilling sense of power. She decided to relax her hand, a sign of relinquishment. When she did, he let her go.

And disappeared in a puff.

"Wait!" she cried. Her surrender did not mean he had to leave. She called him and tried to explain. He did not return.

The rest of the week saw mostly long silences. He came back in the day to spin and nothing more. Not even to tease her or make a show of how little her cared about what happened. Belle put in a few words to clarify her side of things; it proved pointless as Rumplestiltskin feigned obliviousness, no matter if she cajoled or scolded. He also declined to stay the night even when he had to spin the next day. This impasse was prolonged beyond Belle's completed cycle. She grew crosser and crosser with him until her body couldn't take it. Sleeping was hopeless with this much tension, worsened by the fact she actually missed him. Not just that she missed having someone to hold her and for her to listen to breathe as they slept. She missed _him_ - stupid, stubborn, incomprehensible man. She wanted his stories, their conversations, his ear to tell her own stories to. Her dreams of her father were being replaced with dreams of waking up at home with Rumple snuggled against her, or of them strolling in the castle garden. In one dream she'd fled the king and his forces to become a bandit, and she met Rumple again by chance in the woods. He helped her plunder a wagon of goods headed for Dathomir's realm; she talked him into distributing most of the spoils to poor families in the area. He gave her a lesson in sword combat, which she continued to be rubbish at, and thanks to the blissful heat from their exerions they ended up making love in the heart of the forest so none could disturb them.

Happy dreams yielded to miserable reality. More than a week after the last time they touched, she put an end to their standoff. Rumplestiltskin worked at the wheel as she set aside another gold coil. "You look tense," she said, her tone flat.

For the first time in a week, he paused in response. It lasted a second. The wheel resumed whirring. "I'm fine."

Belle looked at him, head tilted. She tried a kinder timbre. "I could give you a quick massage. You'll work faster if you're looser."

He flashed a sneer. "Am I going too slow for you? Then by all means, milady, do what you must."

She didn't want to combat his beastliness with hers, but gods, she was tired of waiting this out. They both needed to unwind. Belle stood behind him and showed no mercy. Her fingers clenched into his stiff muscles. She became a cat clawing at a tree. The digging and kneading grew violent enough that Rumplestiltskin had to take a break from spinning - it disrupted his concentration. But he did not tell her to stop, so she kept on it. A soft groan left his lips. Belle barrelled through initial concern that she might be hurting him and squeezed harder. Her hands burned.

He was wearing his black dragonhide vest today but no arm coverings. She tried to work around it. Her exhausted patience and considerate temperament took a holiday. With a growl she reached around for the front laces.

"What are you doing?" asked Rumple, sounding more dazed than shocked.

"Taking this stupid thing off! You and your stupid vests!" She hoped he didn't pick up on the sob that caught a ride on the last word.

"Why?"

"Because it's making it harder to massage you!"

A few seconds ticked by. His breath shallowed. "Belle?"

"I've almost got it. It'd be a lot easier if you wore one of the other ones with buttons, you know!"

"Belle."

"You wear this one to make me cross. Every single time I've done something wrong - doesn't matter if it's justified or if I apologize - you come back wearing this thing."

Rumplestiltskin swallowed. "Belle."

All but the last two lacings at the bottom hung loose. Her finger pulsed red trying to undo them. "What?" she asked, another sob folded inside.

He said nothing. His hands cradled hers. They rubbed away the soreness and the aches. Belle, near tears, butted her forehead against his spine. "At least before you came back giggling and throwing your hands around. At least then you talked and were kind of funny . . . in an annoying way." She paused to stave off more sobs. "Why are you pushing me away like this? I didn't mean to be a tease. I got caught up in it and . . . then I realized I wasn't ready. It wasn't just my womanly issue."

"Did it occur to you that you might never be ready?"

She raised her face into his hair. Musk laced with straw, leather, and the sharp sweet residue of magic bathed her senses. It had taken getting used to, but now his scent comforted her even when he didn't want to.

"It seems silly to think so, the more I think about it. When we first kissed, I never thought I'd want to kiss you with my whole mouth. But I have. It was . . ." She giggled, which made her more breathless than she already was from smelling and holding him. "It was _very_ different. But not bad."

"No?" He seemed breathless, too.

Belle shook her head, nuzzling the nape of his neck. He shuddered. Good. Now he felt as she had waking up from any dream that ended with her in his arms. She rested her cheek on his shoulder. The scale pattern in the leather imprinted into her skin. "I didn't mean it when I said your vests were stupid. They're not - they're beautiful. But they're stiff and tight and you wear them like armor. The fact you let me take them off means a great deal to _both_ of us. I know that. I wouldn't betray your trust. If you feel I did, that wasn't my intention."

A slight tightening in her bent legs warned her they were tiring from her awkward stance. Rumplestiltskin had her hands, however, and her hands had his vest. She didn't want either of them to let go. Her stool appeared to be the only option. She tried hooking her toes under one of the rungs. Another thought came to her. Her hands forfeited their place, both the vest and Rumplestiltskin's hold, but they did not leave the imp. She and they traded places. Rumple's eyes spanned as Belle circled around, still hugging him, and straddled his lap. Blue cotton fell over black leather. There was plenty of skirt to create a barrier between her legs and his, although it required one of her hands to tuck said skirts under her rear. The hand hurried back to its position.

They had never expressed this level of familiarity in the daylight. It hardly differed from their nighttime ventures, except Belle could see Rumplestiltskin in stark clarity. Her hands traced his ribs, pectorals and throat before losing themselves in his mane. He gripped her waist to steady her and himself.

"You would do all this," he said, bewildered, "to protect your child? A child who doesn't even exist yet?"

Belle silently admitted that the future infant, while no less important, had not remained the sole reason. Opening herself to the obscure realm of carnal wonders had begun to redefine how she saw herself as a woman, albeit with very gradual progress. Her view of men changed, too. They were not mindless salivating beasts that one should fear or recline before like a sacrificial offering. No wonder her first efforts fell apart - putting herself through that even for a loved one's sake appalled her. But she had found a compromise: she could give herself and enjoy it without the romantic trimmings her books had insisted on. She wasn't looking for eternal happiness with Rumplestiltskin, but that did not diminish the remarkable connection they shared. Convention was a composite of rules as breakable as pie crusts. And might they not continue to have something after her marriage to Dathomir and the child's birth? She would visit, and he would be lurking about to watch after their offspring. If being Dathomir's wife left her bed cold or devoid of affection, the occasional tryst with the imp might be arranged. If Rumplestiltskin wanted that. Maybe he wouldn't mind giving her more children. She didn't much at all.

The dreams of her and him over the week buoyed up, making her body heat rise. Her eyes closed. She touched her face to his - brow to brow, nose to nose. Their inhales and exhales danced. Her fingernails drew swirling patterns on his scalp.

"I'm doing this for me, too."

Their eyes opened at the same time. Belle gave a small smile at Rumple and his still confused expression. "Would you like me to finish the massage?"

The imp pouted, giving Belle had another reason to giggle. "It means you have to leave my lap, doesn't it?"

"I have to leave anyway if you're going to spin the rest of the straw."

He chuckled and let his hands fall away. She pulled back. Clear eyes scanned his lizard-skin visage. Then rosy lips claimed pinkish gray ones in a long chaste kiss. Although closed, Belle poured every ounce of need and care that had accrued over the duration of their acquaintance into it. A tingling warmth filled her head and fingers, and her heart staggered when his hands anchored on her thighs. She unlatched her lips and lay her head on his shoulder a second time. If she didn't get up soon, they would have a repeat of the night that led to this mess to begin with.

She watched his adam's apple roll up and down as he swallowed. It stood out regardless the soft wrinkled folds, which at their first meeting repulsed her, and now intrigued her. She wondered how the skin here would feel and taste.

"Does this mean I should stay tonight? Do you . . . want it to happen tonight?"

For all her slowly building confidence, her insides still tensed. She had never wanted and feared something with this much intensity in her life. "Maybe we could wait until after I get another wash." It had been a few weeks and she did not know the precise scheduling. "Besides, tonight is supposed to be your night off. We have tomorrow free."

"I've taken quite a few nights off this week. I will stay to keep you company if you wish."

"All right. I'll try not to have another nightmare." She chuckled and kissed his cheek. Soon she was behind him again, on her stool this time. The vest was loose enough for her to rub his back underneath the garment. Her hands kneaded him much more peacefully. The massage lasted until the gold piled so high it obstructed the bobbin. From there some normalcy returned. Rumplestiltskin reaccounted his travels to a world where there was no color and there lived a doctor who tried to use science to bring the dead back to life. She forlornly remarked how she had considered asking him if there was a way to resurrect her father, but presumed the price would be too high. He explained that magic could do much, but it could not reverse death. Belle nodded in acceptance and watched the gold she wound, causing her to miss the pained glance he regarded her with.

That night Rumple offered a massage in return. It came admittedly as a huge relief for Belle to lie on her stomach while his dexterous hands squeezed out a week's worth of unbroken tension. She turned to jelly under his ministrations, not caring about the appreciative noises she made. He finished, lay down in his usual spot and rolled her to him. They fell asleep spooning. Relaxed and cradled, Belle soundly slumbered. She dreamed of her castle, the library and the gardens, Rumplestiltskin at her side, a miffed Gaston looking on. Her father wringing his hands in worry - she ought to think be thinking of marriage, not wasting her hours with this beastly cretin that shadowed her. In her bedroom as they prepared for the night, Rumple said that her father had cause to worry. No suitor would consider her eligible if she openly spent so much time with him.

"Maybe I don't want a husband," she said while crawling under the covers.

Rumplestiltskin slunk in after her, his skin looking darker against the abundance of white decor around them. "What lady doesn't want a husband?" he asked in his ironic fashion.

She tugged him down to her. "Why would I need a husband when I have you?"

They kissed and groped while outside, she knew, Dathomir had tangled himself in an argument with Gaston and Maurice. They agreed on most things but were shouting too loudly to hear. Metal clashed and fists began pounding on the door. Belle and Rumpleltskin held tighter and kissed deeper.


End file.
